Her Soul to Take (Souls Trilogy) Read online

  I flipped through the pages, marveling at the detailed sketches and tiny, neat Latin. There were drawings of herbs and plants, and some quick use of an online translator told me that the text described the greenery’s magical properties. Then there were the sketches of monsters: the boney wolf zombie, a lean, faceless creature draped in seaweed with tentacle-like legs, a multi-limbed thing that looked like a spider with a bird’s beak made out of broken tree branches. The art was amazing, the kind of design that would have inspired Creepypastas and indie video game developers.

  There were pages on purifications, clothing, prayers, astrological events — I only had the patience to translate bits and pieces, but the sheer amount of information was mind-blowing. This grimoire was an absolute treasure. Every time I turned the page, my heart beat a little faster.

  Then I found a drawing unlike the others. It was a sketch of a man, around my own age I guessed. His hair lay in waves that curled around his ears, soft pencil strokes portraying a lightness to it. He was shirtless, the muscles of his lean chest starkly outlined but marred with what I could only think were meant to be scars and the vague outlines of tattoos. His lips were full, his chin dimpled. Beneath dark, heavily drawn brows, his eyes had been colored gold.

  It was the only spot of color I’d encountered in the book so far. It made his eyes look alive, as if they were watching me, and there was a texture to them as if they’d been formed with flakes of gold leaf.

  The adjoining page read, Operation for the Summoning and Binding of the Killer.

  The Killer...summoning and binding…

  These were instructions for summoning a demon.

  I leaned back from the book, the trepidation that had been lurking at the edge of my excitement taking center stage. I wasn’t sure if I believed in demons and magic. Ghosts were one thing: the remnants of departed souls, lingering energy, stranded spirits. But demons were something else entirely, one of the many creatures that had lurked in the shadows of human fears for centuries, for millennia. I didn’t deny the possibility they could exist — but like gods and angels, I usually assigned them to the realm of mythos.

  Demons were exciting, fascinating. The possibility of a place not being merely haunted, but possessed by demonic forces was the driving entertainment value behind numerous horror stories. They played perfectly on human fears: unexplained, terrifyingly powerful, tempting and seductive, representative of sin.

  I’d walked through places where demons were said to play. I’d found them no more frightening than anywhere else.

  I couldn’t get those eyes out of my head. Golden, glowing, piercing in the dark. I was still awake at nearly 2am, lying in bed with my laptop open, trying to use my body’s refusal to sleep as an opportunity to brainstorm new vlog ideas.

  My subscriber count was being swiftly surpassed by newer channels, channels that played up the drama rather than the science of careful investigations. WE USE A OUIJA BOARD IN MASSACHUSETTS’ MOST HAUNTED FOREST! ATTACKED BY A DEMON! Millions of views for this shitty clickbait. It had only been up a few days.

  Shot in the green lens of night vision, I watched the group pretend to be possessed. I watched them run through the woods shrieking, move a planchet around a Ouija board to form threatening messages they all gaped at. It was fake, all fake. I think the audience knew it was fake too, but judging from the comments, no one really cared. It was exciting, it was funny. It was entertaining. Dozens of channels pumped out content like this while mine wallowed behind on views because I insisted on authenticity.

  I snatched up my vape pen from the bedside table, inhaling irritably. If I didn’t turn something around soon, I wouldn’t be able to keep up the channel. Pretty soon I’d have to face reality, get the office job, and settle down. Every fiber of my being cringed away from that possibility, but I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had bills to pay, and this adult thing seemed determined to crush every last dream down to a pulp.

  The Killer. Golden eyes in the dark.

  I’d bookmarked that page, and I wasn’t sure why yet. It became even harder to sleep knowing that downstairs on the coffee table, the grimoire sat closed — but within those pages, in the dark, those golden eyes still shone.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Monday morning brought more gray skies and drizzling rain. I walked to school under the black brim of my umbrella, boots splashing through the puddles along my narrow driveway to the road. As I reached the mailboxes, I caught sight of Mrs. Kathy grabbing her mail. As my first-grade teacher, nearly fourteen years ago, her blonde hair had been streaked with gray — now it had gone straight silver.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kathy!” I waved to her cheerfully from under my umbrella. She narrowed her eyes at me, blinked rapidly behind her large horn-rimmed glasses, and then hurriedly walked back toward her driveway.

  Well, damn. Okay then.

  It was only a fifteen-minute walk to campus, but the cold made it feel longer. Then Abelaum University’s Gothic peaks and tall windows loomed up behind the trees, cloaked with creeping vines and spackled with moss. It looked as if it should have been abandoned and decaying, not swarming with students carrying iPhones and Starbucks cups. Umbrellas definitely weren’t the thing here: the misting rain didn’t seem to bother anyone but me. Everyone else merely had hooded raincoats.

  Southern California didn’t require raincoats — there wasn’t a single one in my closet. I’d have to go shopping soon if I didn’t want to keep sticking out like a very cold sore thumb.

  I wandered down the wide stone hallways in search of my first class, squinting for the tiny gold numbers affixed beside every dark wooden door. The rain increased and drizzled in slow rivulets down the narrow windows that lined one side of the hall. The view was obscured by aspen and spruce, but beyond the needles I could still see the university’s tall, sharp spires. The temptation to stop every few yards and pull my camera from my bag was barely resistible, and when I finally made it to class on time, I considered it a massive achievement.

  Classes were the typical first day affair of going over the syllabus, but with one stark difference: both my morning professors addressed the recent “tragic loss of a student’s life.” There were reassurances of safety, of increased security, of local police doing “everything they could.” I was in the dark until I did a quick Google check.

  Student Found Dead on University Campus: Investigation On-going.

  Just before the semester started, a student’s body had been found brutally murdered in one of the university buildings. The true crime junkie in me kept searching for more, but there was little to go off. No suspects. No leads. No statements by local police. I was honestly stunned that a murder could occur in such a quiet small town and not result in an absolute explosion of press and speculation.

  The morning mist lingered, seeping between the old buildings and dampening the stones to a darker shade of gray. The mossy roots of the evergreens were enveloped like a slowly rolling tide. But despite the weather, ASB had set up booths all across the quad to greet new students, as had a few dozen of the campus clubs. The excitement of a new semester felt at odds with the dampening fog; as if nature was trying everything in her power to silence the loud, chattering students.

  With time to spare before my next class, I gave in and pulled out my camera. Everything from the bell tower above the library to the low, crooked stone walls that boxed in the hedges carried a pleasing aesthetic from behind my lens. The damp, the greenery, the Gothic drama of it all — I felt as if I had stepped into a Grimm fairytale, right back into my childhood fairy kingdom.

  But death had come to the kingdom, and it announced its presence with the sudden shock of yellow caution tape cordoning off the entrance to one of the northwest halls.

  I wandered closer. CALGARY was affixed in rusting letters above the building’s closed double doors, with an H and awkwardly spaced L following. The trees had grown close to it, their limbs snaking around the building’s steep roof as if slowly enfoldi
ng it in a living cocoon.

  I knew that name from the news articles I’d read that morning: this was the hall in which the student’s body had been found. I snapped another photo, capturing the juxtaposition of the glaring plastic tape against the old pockmarked stone. It was beautiful, in a dreadfully grim way.

  “Are you fucking lost?”

  Don’t judge me, but there was something about a mean voice that got me hot — and the voice that spoke from behind me was as mean as they come. I turned, to find a man standing at the foot of Calgary’s stairs, his arms folded and his light green eyes sliding over me. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, dressed all in black, with a tight long-sleeved athletic shirt, cargo pants, and laced-up military boots.

  Shit. Exactly my type of too-pretty-for-their-own-good asshole.

  “Not lost,” I said, pinning my best please-fuck-off smile on my face. “It’s hard to miss the bright yellow tape pasted across the scene of a murder.”

  He answered my smile with one of his own; but where mine was bitchy, his was the kind of smile you could imagine seeing outside your window at night, with canines sharp enough to tear me apart. “Oh, good, you didn’t miss the tape. Then I’ll take it that you just can’t read, since you decided to hang around.”

  I had to force myself to keep my feet planted and not shuffle them. Something about his face looked off. His high cheekbones could cut a girl with their razor edge, if his piercing green eyes didn’t get her first. His full lips made him look boyish, almost innocent — but that innocence stopped at his eyes. They were deep-set below thick brows the same color as his honey blond hair, which was shaved short above his ears and long and messy on top.

  He was absurdly attractive. My stomach was already in knots, which meant my voice only got sharper as I said, “I’m pretty sure the tape says Caution, not Stay Back 20 Feet. I don’t see a sign telling me to stay away.”

  His smile faded. It melted away from his face like icicles shattering from a roof in winter, and he climbed the steps toward me. I folded my arms, regretting that I hadn’t just walked away as I spotted a logo stitched into his shirt: PNW Security Services.

  Damn it. I was mouthing off to a security guard.

  He towered over me. He had to lean down to get his face in mine.

  “What’s your name?” His voice was low, the words wrapping threateningly around my throat as surely as his big hands could have. I began to chew nervously on my lower lip, and pushed my glasses up my nose.

  “Alex,” I said. If he was going to report me to some authority figure, then there was no way I was going to risk getting a mark on my record the first day here. But he shook his head, with a languidly slow, patient blink.

  “No. It’s not.”

  That feeling of fingers wrapping around my throat intensified. I had to resist reaching my hand up to ensure nothing was squeezing me. What was this guy’s problem? Maybe if I’d just watched my attitude to begin with, then he wouldn’t be pissed off, but it was a little late for that now.

  My back was to Calgary’s closed doors, and this guy was entirely blocking my path down the stairs. As I hesitated to answer, he straightened up and leaned one hand above me against the door. Now it wasn’t just the feeling of a hand around my throat; it was also the sensation of a boot pressing down on my skull, pushing me against concrete, whispering incomprehensible threats in my ear —

  “It’s Raelynn,” I muttered hurriedly. Instantly the feeling vanished. What the hell? Did I have low blood sugar, or was this asshole really that intimidating? I tugged my book bag a little closer. “If you’re going to be such a dick about it, I’ll just leave then.”

  He sniffed harshly, something that easily could have been either amusement or disgust. His rock-hard expression was impossible to read, but having that much intensity fixated on me was uncomfortable. He pushed off the wall and stepped aside, clearing the way for my hurried escape.

  “Watch where you wander, girl,” he said, refusing to use my name even now that he’d gotten it out of me. “Curiosity can get you in trouble.”

  Part of me desperately wanted to know what kind of “trouble” he was talking about, because a man that beautiful could cause me a lot of trouble indeed. Embarrassing that a pair of bright eyes and a deep voice could make my vow to stop being attracted to assholes go flying out the window.

  I stalked away from the building onto the lawn, those light green eyes needling into the back of my skull. I tossed my hair back, trying to add some determination in my step to cover up how flustered he’d gotten me. But something strange happened. It felt like a rope snaking around my ankle, higher and higher, tighter and tighter —

  That toxic relationship of mine with gravity? Yeah, it was back to bite me in the ass.

  I tripped over my own feet, and at the same time, my old pin-covered book bag finally gave out. The frayed shoulder strap snapped and the bag fell open. My textbooks splayed themselves across the wet grass, loose papers drifted down into puddles, and my to-go cup of iced coffee that I’d wedged — foolishly — into the corner of the bag burst open and sent watered-down coffee splashing across my shoes.

  I had to take a moment of silence before I knelt and began to collect my things. I could feel the eyes of passing students, staring: torn between feeling guilty enough to help and awkward enough to just quicken their pace. Cheeks burning, I glanced back over my shoulder, and found the guard watching me.

  A small, crooked smile was on his face, and he glanced down at my sodden belongings in the grass as if to say, I told you so. That smile would have been charming if he wasn’t such a jerk.

  Who was I kidding? His smile was still charming and my traitorous body was getting tummy flutters from him staring at me.

  “Aw, Rae, what happened?”

  I looked up with a book half-way stuffed back into my useless bag. Inaya was jogging over the lawn toward me, her bright yellow raincoat a sharp contrast to the gloom. She made a sympathetic noise when she saw the state of me: trying to kneel in the grass without giving everyone a look up my skirt, the knees of my black leggings damp and muddy, glasses sliding down my nose.

  “It’s the First Day Curse, I swear,” she said. “Things always go wrong.” She knelt beside me, making quick work of collecting my books as I snatched up the ruined papers. She helped me to my feet, and I did my best to tie the bag’s shoulder strap back together. “It’ll be smooth sailing from here, don’t even worry about it.”

  I pouted up at her, but couldn’t keep up the expression and gave into laughter as she pulled me into a hug. I looped my arm through hers, walking with her across the quad.

  “I see you’ve already met our lovely new security guard, Leon,” she said, giving a slight glance back.

  “Oh, he’s a piece of work,” I grumbled, but I had more on my mind than just a disturbingly hot asshole. I gave her arm a playful slap. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a murder on campus, Inaya?”

  She groaned, rolling her eyes. “Because most people would get freaked out and I didn’t want to make your move any harder, you weirdo!” She shook her head at me. “It was pretty grim, girl. I’ve never heard of anything like that happening here.”

  We made our way toward a square of four stone benches sitting beneath some tall red alders. Several students were seated there, and Inaya waved to them excitedly as we approached.

  “I finally get to introduce you to everyone!” she whispered excitedly as a tall, familiar man in a gray peacoat rose up from his seat on the bench and extended his arms.

  “Miss Raelynn Lawson!” His big voice boomed, and he picked me up for a tight squeeze as Inaya laughed. “It’s been so long, I swear you’ve grown.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, very funny!” I smiled as he set me down. Trent, Inaya’s fiancé, had graduated two years ago from Abelaum University and — from what Inaya had told me — was already doing well for himself at an investment firm in Seattle. “It’s the boots, I wore them specifically so I could
reach your waistline.”

  Trent chuckled and reached over to give Inaya a quick kiss on the forehead. Inaya motioned to the man and woman still seated beside us.

  “Rae, this is Jeremiah and Victoria Hadleigh.” They were obviously twins. Light brown hair, dark blue eyes, pale skin and freckled noses. They looked like they would have been the popular ones in high school. Victoria’s hair was perfectly straight, her black nails long and coffin-shaped, her lips glossed pale nude. Her brother seemed like a jock: muscular, tall, square-jawed, with a cocky smile that managed not to come off as annoying.

  “Their dad pretty much owns the school, so if you have any complaints, just go straight to them,” Inaya said, which got a groan out of Victoria, and a shake of the head from Jeremiah.

  "No, no, no," Jeremiah said. "We don't own the school."

  "Technically, Dad only owns three buildings," Victoria said, taking a drag from a slim silver vape she pulled from within her black raincoat. "And the only building that really matters is Hadleigh Library.” She motioned behind her, toward the large structure that occupied the entire east side of the quad. She gave me a wink. “If you have any book requests, you can totally bring that to us."

  “That’s awesome, thank you!” I made a mental note of that, as having a library’s worth of knowledge at my fingertips was extremely helpful for investigations. Not everything could be found on the internet, especially when it came to particularly old or rare texts. The library was lined with trees, and a massive arch of stained-glass windows crowned its entrance. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Thanks.” Victoria shrugged, as if having your father’s library complimented was something she heard every day. “But enough about us. What about you, Miss California? What’s your sign, what do you like, what do you do?”

  “Oh, uh, Sagittarius,” I cleared my throat, fiddling with the knot in my bag’s strap. “I’m a Radio-TV-Film major, I like photography, uh…”