Lost Souls co-2 Page 7

  As Cait began relating all that had happened, from the night of Sylvia Reyes’s disappearance to the moment she’d been zapped at the crime scene, Morin remained silent, his expression elusive.

  When she finished, she sat, waiting for a long moment while he studied her.

  Morin shifted in his chair, and his gaze lit on Sam. “Be at ease. That spell should help the electrical charge find ground without harming her again.”

  Sam nodded as though he believed him. And maybe he did. Sam took a lot on faith these days, especially regarding things that weren’t exactly by the book.

  “I haven’t spied on your intimate life, at least not purposely.” Sam’s gaze hardened, but Morin moved back to her. “This is a classic haunting.”

  “Ghosts? Wraiths? I’ve only seen the one spirit, Sylvia’s, and certainly no wispy, freezing winds.”

  “Not a ghostly haunting. This is strictly demonic. Somewhere among the guests, there is a demon who has attached himself to the premises. The walls are his skin, the beams his bones. When he consumes a human victim, he takes them inside himself, into the walls to feed.”

  Her lips curled in disgust. “Ew.”

  “You were lucky Sam was there. If you’d been alone, you might well have been pulled inside and devoured.”

  Cait shivered. Another thought niggled. “How is he taking them back in time to deposit them?”

  Morin’s shoulder lifted. “Bending time, stopping time—that’s not so difficult, Caitlyn. You’re asking the wrong question.” His gaze narrowed. “Why is he taking them back?”

  “Do you know?”

  “Perhaps he does because it’s easier to hide his victims. Law enforcement wasn’t as sophisticated or connected in those days. Or perhaps he’s sentimental.”

  “Do you think he first attached himself to that house all those years ago?”

  His expression approving, he nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Should I be looking for someone older, then?”

  “He’s a demon. And if he’s been feeding on human life-force, he might not age. So, no, don’t narrow your search to an elderly person.”

  Frustration tightened her muscles. She wasn’t getting concrete answers she could work with, so she asked another question. “How do I figure out who it is?”

  “A demon this powerful can’t detach himself from the structure. And he can’t depend on guests to fulfill his appetites. This Sylvia was lured there by a helper. She was seduced into a meeting inside the hotel. You might have an incubus. It would make sense. An incubus seduces his victims, then drains them of their energy once they are aroused. If he’s not a soulless killer, he’ll take only what he needs, sparing his victim. In this case, he likely leaves them only weakened so the demon can finish them. If you encounter one, be careful because he will be powerfully potent. You won’t be able to resist his allure,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “Now that the demon of the house knows you are seeking him and has tasted for himself what you are, he’ll have his minion trolling for you. You could be in great danger.”

  “Then she’s not stepping foot inside there again,” Sam said, his voice flat.

  Morin’s dark eyes reflected a hint of remorse. “She’s the only one who can fight this—unless you’re willing to let the demon take more victims. You can’t do it, Samuel Pierce. You aren’t equipped to do battle with a supernatural entity.”

  “What’s it going to take to kill him?” Cait asked, her stomach quivering slightly at the thought of what she might have to do. “Should I be looking for a priest to do an exorcism?”

  Morin smirked. “The only thing a priest might do is annoy the demon into seeking another residence where he will continue killing. Take heart in the fact the demon has betrayed his source of power and his Achilles’ heel. He consumes souls inside his walls. He has become the hotel.” His hands outlined the roof and the sides of the building. “The only way to vanquish him completely is to burn the structure to the ground.”

  Deflated, Cait slumped in her chair. “Well, hell. That’s not helpful. There are a dozen full-time residents and laws that will make that a really bad idea. There has to be another way.”

  Morin gave an impatient shake of his head. “Then take his accomplice out of the picture first. We can worry about the demon later when he can’t see beyond his walls.”

  “How do we find him?”

  Morin’s head canted. His gaze swept her body before landing on her mouth. “I think he will find you.”

  “Dammit, Cait.” The chair beside her scraped on the floor.

  “Shut up, Sam,” she said giving him a sideways glance. “This is like any other investigation. We’re baiting a perp to show himself.” To Morin, she asked, “Any hints how we’ll know which of the guests or staff he is? He’s not attached to the hotel. He can move around freely. He could be anybody.”

  “You’ve interviewed everybody. Who is the most eager to involve themselves in your investigation? Incubi are inquisitive, mischievous. He’ll consider seducing you a challenge.”

  Sam stiffened. “The TV crew.”

  Cait nodded and gave Sam a tight smile. “Then that’s where we’ll start. We’ll invite them to join us. To set up their cameras. But while they’re watching for ghosts, we’ll be watching for the one who’s most curious about us.”

  Sam turned to Morin. “Once we’ve found him, what then? How do we take him out?”

  Morin’s smile was benign. “He’s a true shape-shifter. He lives in a stolen life. Don’t worry that you must destroy a human. His shell is as vulnerable as any man’s. Kill him by any ordinary means.”

  “That’s good news,” Cait said, as a bit of tension released inside. “We lost the demon-sucking bellows when we shattered the mirror.”

  Morin smiled at her words. “You won’t be drawing a demon out of a human host. No bellows required. Besides, do you think that was the only tool at my disposal?”

  Cait sighed. “How do you do it? How do you always have everything? How do you even replenish your stores?”

  “Celeste brings me things. Ingredients, groceries for when I grow bored with what is always in my cupboards.”

  Her attention caught on that last statement. “Is it magical? If I eat the bread in your bread basket, will there be another loaf when I look again?”

  His smile stretched wide, deepening the faint crow’s feet at the sides of his eyes. “And how many years has it taken you to figure that out?”

  “Give me some credit.” Cait frowned. “I didn’t know you were trapped in an enchanted shop. Have you ever tried walking out the door when someone leaves?”

  His smile tightened, and he physically winced. “I’ve tried walking, running, jumping through the door, and all the windows. There is no escape for me. Each time, I meet a barrier I can’t crash through.”

  His gaze rested on her again, and she felt a weight settle in her chest. “You still expect me to free you?”

  “Someday, I hope you will find the confidence in me to try.”

  “It’s not a matter of confidence, Morin. You’re the most powerful sorcerer even Celeste has ever known. If you don’t know a spell, how the hell do you expect me to work the magic?”

  His eyebrows moved up and down. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

  She bit her lip then giggled.

  “Cait.” Sam’s hand slid behind her waist.

  “Right.” She cleared her throat. “We have work to do.”

  “You know, you have powers I don’t,” Morin said, tapping his bottom lip with his forefinger. “Perhaps you should try speaking to the dead to find the apprentice.”

  She tilted her head, considering it. “Since ghosts aren’t exactly popping out of closets, a summoning spell?”

  “Do you remember one?”

  “There’s one in my mother’s book. All I need’s a butterfly.” Cait pushed back her chair and rose. Sam’s scraped beside her. “Bye, Morin.”

  “Bye-bye, Caitlyn.” He held out his
hand. A small brass key lay across his palm.

  Cait swiped it off and curled her hand. She might need to find him quickly the next time. Better to have the key so she didn’t have to waste time on a locator spell that might not work.

  After one last searching glance and silent thanks, she left the kitchen and strode toward the door. With a twist of the knob, she stepped back into the sunny café alcove.

  Around them the sounds of Beale Street on a hot summer’s day returned in a jarring cacophony.

  No one around them seemed to notice their arrival or the door that hadn’t been there a moment before.

  “No one’s looking this way,” Sam said, his voice gruff. “Why’s that? We just walked through a door that’s not supposed to be here.”

  “It’s not for them to see,” she said, enjoying the deepening frown that darkened his blue-as-the-sky eyes.

  “Would I see the door if I came back without you?”

  Cait shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try it sometime.” She blew out a deep breath and glanced around them. “It’s going to be a hike.”

  Sam grunted. “We couldn’t have followed the crows in the car?”

  She flashed him a smile. “Would it have been nearly as much fun?”

  His lopsided grin made her heart skip a beat. Lord, he was a sexy man. Too bad they had work to do.

  A butterfly shouldn’t be that hard to find.

  7

  “Are you planning a summer wedding? Or early fall? Keep in mind I can only provide monarchs through November.”

  Sam shot a glare at Cait, who’d been smiling like a giddy bride since the moment they’d arrived at the Paradise Butterfly Farm—or at least like she imagined a giddy bride might smile.

  On Cait, the forced excitement looked strangely maniacal. The vision wasn’t helped by the quick transformation she’d made in the car while driving there. Her long curly hair was confined to a high ponytail. She’d bitten her lips and pinched her pale cheeks to make them pink since she didn’t carry a handbag with cosmetics. The vacant stare and vapid smile wouldn’t have looked amiss on a blonde. He didn’t like it one bit.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Cait said, twirling the end of her ponytail. “I’m not feeling it. Do you have anything rare? Something really special?”

  Mrs. Edelstein’s polite smile faltered. “The silver gulfs have a shorter season, but they would cost you more.”

  No doubt she’d eyed Cait’s well-worn jeans and plain black tank and figured she was the one marrying up. Maybe Mrs. Edelstein figured her daddy’s bank account wouldn’t cover the expense of a butterfly release.

  “I meant, do you have any truly rare butterflies here at all? I’ve been fascinated with butterflies ever since the idea popped into my mind.”

  Mrs. E’s lips tightened just a little more, revealing a hint of annoyance.

  Sam didn’t blame her. She hadn’t expected customers to arrive this late in the day. Cait’s wheedling pleas and hint that she needed “masses and masses” of butterflies to celebrate her wedding had convinced the woman to stay open long enough for them to make the twenty-minute drive to the outskirts of the city, where her “farm” sat on three acres of forested land.

  Middle-aged and with unnaturally dark brown hair and a stout figure, Mrs. E, as she’d told them she preferred to be called, caved beneath the bright expectancy and stubborn charm of “Caitydid Migelo.” Her sigh gave away her surrender.

  “The rare ones aren’t for release, dear. But if you’d like to see the butterfly house, I have some endangered species there. I don’t get many folks interested in seeing my treasures, other than the odd collector, and I won’t sell to them only to have their desiccated little bodies displayed on a wall like some trophy.”

  “That’s so sweet of you!” Cait said, her expression wide-eyed, admiring. “Could I see those before we make our decision about which butterflies we’d like to have released during our nuptials?”

  Nuptials? He’d never heard Cait use that word before. It made him shiver with dread. And what was she up to? The woman had tons of bugs. She’d never miss one from those swarming the monarch shed.

  As Mrs. E turned on the beaten path to lead the way, Sam mouthed, What are you doing?

  Cait lifted her shoulders. Go with it.

  Mrs. E led them through another deeply wooded trail in her large backyard, toward a plastic-wrapped domed greenhouse. “It’s such a thrill to have visitors. Most of my business is conducted via the Internet these days.”

  Cait tugged her hand free and skipped behind the older woman, her hair bobbing behind her. She tossed a smile over her shoulder and gave Sam a wink.

  He couldn’t help but smile at her antics.

  “I had no idea so many people were ordering butterflies for their weddings,” Cait jabbered on. “But when Aunt Celeste mentioned there were local breeders, I had to come see. I can’t imagine anything more appropriate for a wedding.”

  Mrs. E nodded. “Yes, a caterpillar leaving its chrysalis to fly free… The change is so very symbolic of new life, isn’t it? Although butterflies are becoming the rage at funerals these days too.”

  Sam shook his head at the nonsense. The thought of the type of wedding or funeral where butterflies flying out of boxes would be appropriate made him itch.

  Cait had been far more sensible when they’d decided to marry. A service at City Hall with a judge had taken all of fifteen minutes. The only thing either of them had wanted to savor was the wedding night.

  “You’re so very lucky you came today,” Mrs. E said, pausing at the door of yet another shed. “I found a Hessel’s hairstreak nectaring on an Amelanchier today. I bought an Atlantic white cedar, that’s the hairstreak’s host tree, and planted it years ago, hoping it would thrive so that I could see this day.”

  “It’s that rare?” Cait said, her excitement unfeigned.

  Mrs. E unlocked the rickety plastic door and pushed it open. “On the endangered species list, my dear. Just wait until you see it.”

  As they entered, Sam blew out a breath, worried because Cait’s expression had lost its giddy vacancy for a split second.

  Her eyes narrowed as her gaze flitted about, looking for her quarry. “What’s a hairstreak look like? I’m assuming that’s a butterfly, or is it a moth?”

  “A butterfly. Minty green and brown. Ahhh. Here he is.”

  The woman stood with her hands clasped in delight beside a butterfly “nectaring” on a white flower.

  Sam eyed it, wondering about the fuss but admitting it was pretty. Mostly vivid green, the insect had white spots on its forewings, a dashed white line on its hindwings, and a rim of brown and black along the edges of its delicate larger wings.

  “She’s perfect,” Cait whispered.

  With his stomach sinking to his toes, he watched as Cait pulled her phone surreptitiously from her pocket and held it to the side while she tapped the screen.

  A telephone rang in the distance.

  Mrs. E turned toward the distant sound. “Oh my. That might be another customer. If you would come with me…”

  Cait’s expression fell. Disappointment shone in her puppy-like eyes. “Can we stay here while you answer your call?” she asked, the wheedling note reentering her voice. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful, the ambience I need to convince my fiancé that butterflies are just the thing we need to finish off our wedding plans.”

  The woman’s gaze darted to her precious butterfly, her smile slipping. “Well, if you promise not to touch a thing. I won’t be a moment.”

  Cait smiled, her gaze following the woman until she left through the plastic door. Then she whipped her head toward Sam. “Quick, your coffee cup.”

  Sam shook his head. “Cait, why not ask her for one of the monarchs? She has hundreds.”

  She pulled a mulish face. “Because this butterfly has to be special.”

  “It has to be endangered?”

  “It’s the most special one here.” She stomped her foot
. “Now give me that cup.”

  Still in bride mode. He thought maybe the wedding thing had gone a little too far because she was acting like a bridezilla. But he handed her the cup. She was the witch. She knew what kind of butterfly she needed to summon the spirit of Sylvia Reyes.

  She popped the lid and stepped off the path next to the tree. Then she lifted the cup over the butterfly, still munching happily away. But the moment she dropped the cup, the butterfly fluttered off. “Shit. Help me, Sam. Don’t let that butterfly get away!”

  Sam started to lift his hands to tell her she was on her own, but her eyebrows dropped and she gave him that hundred-yard bridezilla stare guaranteed to scare the piss out of any red-blooded man.

  And oddly, that look produced a feeling inside him, one that curdled his insides and made him start to sweat. “Honey, what do you want me to do?” he found himself saying automatically.

  Cait hopped back onto the path and passed him the cup and lid. “Catch it! We have to get him before she comes back.”

  Sam tucked the lid into his pants pocket and then followed her wild gaze as she scanned the greenhouse. He spotted the green butterfly fluttering on the branch of the stunted tree. “There,” he said, pointing, and then he leapt forward, the Styrofoam cup raised. He slowed once he neared the bug.

  “Don’t let him get away. And don’t hurt him.”

  “Shush,” he whispered.

  “Like he can hear you?” she snarled. “Do butterflies even have ears?”

  “Why am I suddenly wishing I was green and had wings?” Sam muttered. He stared down at the butterfly as its wings fluttered twice and its skinny little legs repositioned until it stared directly back at Sam. His heartbeat slowed, his eyes strained, unblinking as he brought the cup nearer.

  “She’s coming back,” Cait hissed.

  “Lord, fuck a duck,” he muttered and clapped the cup over the branch, trapping the butterfly.

  A door rattled in the distance. “Miss Migelo? Yoohoo, I’m back. Um, what are you doing?”

  Sam cursed, scooped his hand under the cup and turned, sure he’d just gotten caught, but his gaze snagged on Cait, who was sitting, holding banana slices while half a dozen butterflies swarmed her fingers.