Soulmates

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Give me a sec,” he ordered, scanning the crime scene. No sign of forced entry, no murder weapon, and he’d bet his ass there’d be no DNA or fingerprints.

  The young officer glared at the corpse. His face slightly green, he looked sick to his stomach. “What animal would do something like that?”

  Animal was the keyword. The rib cage of the poor bastard was torn into pieces, most of his organs removed, the body had been twisted in an unnatural way, and the victim’s face unrecognizable. “I don’t know,” Legend said. “But whatever killed him won’t stop.”

  “Whatever? You mean whoever, right?”

  Legend pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and went to the door. “No. I meant whatever.”

  ****

  My knees are like jelly as the sickening vision fades. The symbol carved into the man’s head had been a sigil. In other words, a demon’s calling card. Every demon has its own. But this one, I had seen before. It had been carved into the chest of Mister Sinister, the guy who’d attacked me in an alley. The dude Alex thought I’d iced.

  “Are you all right?” Legend sounds genuinely concerned.

  My hands tremble. “Just a little dizzy.”

  He loosens the collar of his shirt. A weird tattoo crawls over his neck. Looks like some sort of symbol. “Sure you don’t want to join me, Amanda?”

  Before I can answer, Lindy shouts, “Amanda!”

  For once, I’m glad my boss is a freaking tyrant. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

  Chapter 2

  I’m late. Again. It’s quarter past four when I sprint up the stairs to Professor Penrose’s philosophy class. I used to be reliable, but between the diner, my busy class schedule, and the goddamn nightmares, I had to scratch punctuality from my resume. Damn, how I miss the good old days. Sleeping till noon, reading cards till midnight, and partying with the owls—all a distant memory.

  Told ya normal is overrated. I should have listened to the censorious voice in my head.

  Loaded with a stack of books and coffee, I barge through the door of the packed auditorium, searching for Bonnie. Easy peasy. The girl is an eye-catcher. Her tight, ivory lace shirt accentuates warm honey-colored skin. Mesmerizing curls cascade down her back, almost reaching her butt, and her charisma lights up the auditorium like a Fourth of July firework. She’s playing with a pen, pretending to listen to Penrose. The girl hates philosophy, but today, of all days, she chose a spot in the freaking front row.

  I proceed down the stairs. Like the mess I am, I trip over my own feet, spill my triple-shot espresso in the process, and burn my goddamn hand. “Fuck!”

  Heads turn and whispers echo round the room. Great. Now I’m not just late but also the center of attention. Gotta love being a student.

  “The girl is unbelievable,” Little Miss Sunshine, next to me, says to her pearl-necklace-wearing BFF.

  Bitch and Bitchier, as I like to call them, are both friends of Chelsea. They’ve hung out at the diner a couple of times, glaring at me as if I bathed in virgin blood in my free time.

  “What do you expect from a devil worshipper?” Bitchier asks quietly.

  I’m no stranger to the rumors my lovely, catholic roommate spread after she’d seen my tarot cards. Yet it blows my mind that in the twenty-first century, reading cards is still associated with Satanism.

  Bitch shifts closer to her friend and grins. “I bet it’s why she gets good grades all the time.”

  “Must be,” Bitchier says. “Look at her. She doesn’t exactly scream intelligence. Slut? Yeah. Einstein? Not so much.” They both giggle.

  I can live with a label like slut, but insulting my intelligence never ends well. Wiping my coffee-soaked hand on my jeans, I face the stupid-ass bitches and smile. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t get good grades because I’m tight with Lucifer. I get ’em ’cause I screw the profs.” I give their virtuous clothes a lingering once-over. “You should try it sometime. Sex, I mean. It could pull those sticks out of your asses.”

  The looks on their faces are priceless, but my little stunt attracted a far greater evil. “Ah, Miss Bishop,” Professor Penrose says. His Welsh accent is thick. “It’s nice you finally grace us with your presence.” He’s the most popular professor on campus, but the Welshman, as he refers to himself, still holds a grudge against me for calling him a Brit.

  I gotta learn to keep my goddamn mouth shut. In another life. Maybe.

  Securing my books under my arm, I beam at the lean giant. “What can I say? The best always comes last.” “She’s got a point,” second-row, Yankee-baseball-cap dude says, loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear. The idiot gives me a creepy stare right under Penrose’s nose.

  Penrose shoots him a narrow-eyed look. “Is there anything you would like to share with us, Mr. DeLuca?”

  He grins from ear to ear and turns his baseball cap around. “Nope.”

  “Good,” Penrose utters, focusing on his notes. “Then let’s—”

  “But plenty I’d like to share with her.”

  The students burst into laughter, and DeLuca and his DUFF (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) fist-bump each other like stupid teenagers.

  Did the state declare this the Piss Amanda Bishop Off holiday, or am I just surrounded by morons?

  Penrose’s mouth slips into a frown. “Ms. Bishop, I think you should take a seat before Mr. DeLuca loses his last ounce of dignity.”

  The other students laugh harder, but DeLuca blushes and shuts up. Well done, Welshman. I begin to understand why students adore him.

  A grateful smile on my lips, I move down the aisle to the front row and fling myself into the empty seat next to Bonnie. “Where the hell have you been?” she whispers while Penrose tries to calm down his audience. “I texted you twice.”

  I yank the MacBook out of my bag. “What do you think?”

  She cuts her eyes to me. “Lindy?”

  Turning my laptop on, I nod. “Bitch hates me, B.” Lindy hates everyone, but for some reason, I occupy a special place in her black heart.

  Bonnie raises her thick brows. “Just quit the damn job already. You know my mom’s offer still stands.”

  Bonnie’s mom isn’t just one helluva mambo, she’s also richer than Richie Rich. The second she heard I went straight, she offered to pay my tuition and whatever else I needed. No way in hell I’d accept money from her or anyone else for that matter. “Drop it, B. I wanted a normal life. Last time I checked, having a fuckin’ job was part of the deal.”

  “Maybe, but being bullied isn’t,” she snaps, raising her voice.

  Penrose shoots us a warning glance. “I would certainly appreciate if we could focus on what’s really important—”

  “The Giants game on Saturday?” George, the wannabe quarterback, asks. The guy lives in Green House, like we do, and is the definition of a jock—good looks, no brain.

  “No, Mr. Blackwell. I was talking about souls.” Penrose sounds annoyed.

  George straightens his team jacket. “That’s hardly more important than the game.”

  I doubt there’s anything more important to George.

  “I believe Dr. Duncan MacDougall would disagree,” Penrose objects. Facing the rest of the bored students, he clears his throat. “Can anyone tell me what Dr. MacDougall’s take on the human soul was?”

  Most students hang their heads. Bonnie ignores Penrose and shifts closer. “About tonight,” she says, excitement gleaming in her eyes. “I was thinking The Bitter End. Sound good?”

  Nothing sounds good when it’s paired with the words: double, blind, and date. “Look, B, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but—”

  “Ms. Bishop.” Penrose’s voice is sharp, his eyes narrowed to two slits.

  I keep my gaze glued to the laptop screen. “Yes?”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about MacDougall’s take on human souls. Why don’t you share your knowledge with the rest of us?”

  Thanks, B.

  Reluctantly, I meet Penrose’s gaze. “Th
e guy spent most of his life trying to prove souls exist.”

  Fiddling with his gold Oxford cufflinks, he smiles with approval. “Excellent, Ms. Bishop.” His gaze shifts to the other students. “Dr. MacDougall’s determination on the subject became legendary.” He pushes a button on his laptop, projecting a slide on the wall. It’s an old newspaper article that reads: Soul Has Weight, Physician Thinks. “In 1901, MacDougall initiated an experiment in which he weighed six patients while they were dying from tuberculosis.”

  “The whole thing was a hoax,” DeLuca mutters behind me.

  Bonnie nudges me in the ribs. “He’s your date.”

  I stare at her. “Penrose?”

  Bonnie laughs. “No, dumbass. DeLuca.”

  My jaw drops, and I forget we’re in the middle of a freaking philosophy class. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

  Penrose pulls one side of his mouth up. “I take it by your choice of language, you don’t agree with Mr. DeLuca, Ms. Bishop?”

  More like his existence doesn’t agree with me, but let’s not split hairs. I give Bonnie my best death glare and clear my throat. “No, Professor Penrose, I don’t. As far as I know, MacDougall was able to measure the souls of four patients.”

  A twinkle in his eyes, he nods. “Correct. Four of his patients had lost three-fourths of an ounce.”

  “Doesn’t prove a thing,” Blind Date from Hell barks. “He had six patients, not four. It’s hardly scientific proof he delivered.” His arrogance annoys the hell outta me.

  “Hot and smart,” Bonnie says to justify her choice.

  I pay no attention to her. The only other option would result in a blood bath and prove the rumors I’m the incarnation of serial killer Elizabeth Báthory true.

  Professor Penrose stretches his lean frame and moves toward his desk. “It pains me greatly to admit Mr. DeLuca has a point. Scientifically speaking, MacDougall’s experiment failed.” He pauses a moment to adjust his glasses before addressing the class again. “We’re not here to discuss success or failure, though. Instead, we will focus on the reasons behind MacDougall’s obsession.” He changes the slide to a painting of a dying man whose soul levitates above him. “Why would an educated man like MacDougall risk his reputation to prove humans are more than just cells?”

  I half expect Bitch and Bitchier to recite every paragraph of the Bible addressing souls, but they keep as quiet as the rest of us.

  Frustration seeps into Penrose’s features. “No one?”

  Silence.

  His eyes find mine. “Ms. Bishop.” Everyone looks at me. “Since you seem somewhat of an expert on the subject, would you tell us if you believe in the existence of a soul?”

  “Yes,” I murmur. “I believe souls exist.” Because when I don’t suffer from demonic nightmares, I happen to be able to read ’em.

  DeLuca’s laughter rings in my ears. “Sure.” He fights for composure. “And Earth is the center of the universe, right?”

  I want to strangle the idiot, cut the arrogant smile right out of his face, but there’d be too many witnesses. So I keep my gaze on Penrose, who’s obviously amused, instead. If DeLuca wants to throw curve balls, I’m game. “Exactly my point,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  I rotate a hundred and eighty degrees and face the arrogant idiot. “Six hundred years ago, humanity threw a fit when scientists suggested the sun was the center of the universe. Hell, it resulted in full-blown riots. Yet, there were men like Galileo trying to prove the unthinkable.”

  DeLuca cocks a brow. “Yeah, and Galileo was right, wasn’t he?”

  I hoped he’d say that. “He was. But that didn’t stop people from declaring him crazy or putting him on trial for heresy, did it?”

  DeLuca leans forward, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to jump at my throat. “You can’t compare Galileo to MacDougall.”

  “Oh, really? Well, let’s see. Both educated? Check. Scientists? Check. Opposing other scientists? Check. Trying to prove the unthinkable? Double check.”

  DeLuca takes his cap off and runs a hand through his golden fringe. “Still not the same.”

  “Why?” Penrose interjects, reminding me we’re still in the auditorium.

  DeLuca purses his lips and gives Penrose the what-kind-of-a-question-is-that look. “For starters, souls are invisible.”

  “So is the air you breathe,” I counter. “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  “You’re right.” DeLuca’s lips curve into a mischievous grin. “But air isn’t something the church invented to scare the crap out of people. I mean, this whole soul idea comes with baggage. Think heaven and hell, sin and morality.”

  I see where the idiot is coming from. But just because some assholes use the concept of the soul to force a certain kind of behavior on humanity, doesn’t mean the idea itself is wrong.

  “Speechless?” he asks.

  I gaze into his big amber eyes and sigh. “Wanna know what your problem is?”

  He shifts to the edge of his seat. Curiosity flickers across his handsome face. “Please, do tell.”

  “You think of a soul as something supernatural or divine. But what if it’s really just the energy that keeps us together? Our life essence.”

  “Life essence?” He laughs. “Do you listen to yourself, sugar? Next thing you’re going to tell me is aliens walk among us, and vampires glitter in the sun.”

  I swallow laughter and give him a look. “A word of advice?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You should cut back on the paranormal romance books. They’re obviously messing with your head.”

  The whole auditorium bursts into laughter. Even DeLuca’s DUFF can’t keep a straight face.

  “Amanda.” Bonnie pinches my arm so hard, I bet it’ll bruise.

  Penrose looks from DeLuca to me. “Apart from the reference to Mr. DeLuca’s taste in books, you made a few valid points, Ms. Bishop. It’s a real shame the lecture is drawing to a close.” He faces his other students. “I’m looking forward to next week. Have a good day, ladies and gentleman. And remember,” he says as the first students leave. “Don’t do anything you can’t justify through rational argument.”

  Like going on a date with DeLuca? No shit.

  I shove the MacBook in my bag, and Bonnie slams her book onto my table. “Why do you have to be such a bitch all the time?”

  I throw my backpack over my shoulder and grin. “Because it’s in my fuckin’ nature, B. You, of all people, should know that.”

  She crosses her arms. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not working. Tonight is happening. Like it or not.”

  The idea of going on a date with DeLuca gives me the willies, but my argument with him had nothing to do with tonight. He’s an ignorant idiot who needed a lesson. Too bad Bonnie is gone before I get a chance to explain.

  Pissed off, I trudge up the stairs, checking mail on the phone, and bump into a rock-hard chest. Nice abs. Real shame I can’t say the same about the personality that goes with it. “Get outta my way,” I snap.

  DeLuca straightens, showing off his strong arms and broad shoulders. Most likely there’s a hidden eight-pack beneath his tight blue thermal shirt. Shame, none of it can atone for his crappy personality. “Bonnie didn’t exaggerate,” he says, grinning wickedly. “You really are one of a kind.”

  I let out a sharp breath. “I am. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about you, DeLuca.”

  He turns his cap around, the crown facing the back, and tilts his head to the side. “My friends call me Bridge.”

  I focus on the hundred unread emails and frown. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

  I step aside to walk away, but DeLuca reaches for my backpack. “Wait. I have a feeling we got off on the wrong foot.”

  I yank free of his grip. “Gee, you think?”

  “I was—”

  “An idiot? Moron? Douchebag?”

  He bites
his lip. “Trying to impress you.”

  I raise my brows. “By hitting on me in front of Professor Penrose?”

  He shrugs. “You accused me of reading chick lit in front of our classmates. Guess we’re even, huh?”

  Why the hell am I even talking to him? I shove my phone in my jacket and run my fingers through my knotted hair. “Look.” I try hard to sound nice. “I have no idea what Bonnie was thinking when she arranged our date, but we’re clearly from two different planets, and I doubt we’d have much fun. So why don’t we—”

  “Whoa.” He holds up a hand. “Are you trying to brush me off?”

  I grin. “So you do have a brain after all?”

  His amber eyes pierce mine. “You really shouldn’t do that.”

  I place a hand on my hip and glare at him. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  DeLuca’s lips curl into a half-smile. “Because”—he leans closer—“you’d regret it.”

  His fucking confidence annoys the hell outta me. “I doubt that.”

  “C’mon, Amanda. Give me a shot. I’m hot, smart, and lots of fun.”

  Hot? Yeah. Smart? Arguable. Fun? Definitely not. “I’m not your type.”

  He gives me the are-you-fucking-serious look. “Sexy, intelligent, and fierce? Sorry, sugar, but you’re exactly my type.”

  Persistent and unable to take a hint. Say hello to a stalker in the making. “Still not interested.”

  A devilish smile tugs at DeLuca’s lips. “Soon you will be, sugar.”

  “That would be on the seventh of never or the eighteenth of ain’t gonna happen, DeLuca.”

  “We’ll see,” he says and walks away.

  Cocky son of a bitch.

  Chapter 3

  Blowing hot air into my icy hands, I turn left onto Third Avenue. It’s freezing, and I regret wearing a mini-dress. Scratch that. What I really regret is leaving my room. It’s not like I haven’t tried to escape this ordeal. Hell, I’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to talk Bonnie out of this stupid idea. Arguing with her is as fruitful as teaching a snail to walk on two feet. Sure she means well and all, but Bridge DeLuca? Really? He’s an annoying know-it-all. Even Alex “jerk-face” Remington would be more fun to go on a freaking date with.