Thief of Souls

By Cynthia Wicklund

EXCERPT FROM THIEF OF SOULS:

“Do you believe in destiny, Regina?” Nick asked.

She was beginning to. “I don’t think so.”

“I do. The first time I saw you I felt a connection, a powerful one. That is not something easily ignored, especially if one is superstitious as I am. I believe fate occasionally tips its hand, and it is wise to listen.”

“I don’t know what it’s telling you, but maybe it’s telling me to run like hell.”
Nick lifted her hand, watching her as he did, and placed his mouth on her knuckles. His lips, which he had licked suggestively, were slightly parted, wet and warm in a lushly erotic way. Regina felt the tip of his tongue on her skin, and her insides went soft as hot wax. He held the kiss for long moments then raised his head, although he continued to hold onto her.

“You can’t escape me, Regina. You may make me work for what I want, but in the end you are caught as surely as I am.”

Her hand in his began to tremble. “What do you want, Nick?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I’m not into casual relationships. And I’m not ready for something more serious.”

“Some things are out of our power, Regina.” There he went again, using her name like a caress. “The choice is no longer ours to make.”

“Destiny?”

“From the depths of my soul, I believe it is.”

“But...” it came out in a whimper, “I can’t get involved right now. There’re things I have to do.”

“Being a doctor?” When she nodded, he said, “I won’t interfere with your responsibilities, Regina. I want your heart, not your life. What is important to you is important to me.”

Regina met his smoky gaze. Unexpectedly, a voluptuous image of two heated bodies, sleek and golden, entwined in man’s most primal activity rose in her mind. Lust as hypnotic and compulsive as opium smoke permeated the scene. Even as the vision consumed Regina, she knew he shared it with her, knew who belonged to those writhing bodies.
Nick leaned toward her and touched her lips with his. Rather than breaking the spell, she felt as though she were spiraling out of control, felt the swelling of exquisite sensations she would have thought impossible in a public place. He was so close the scent of him filled her senses, and Regina found herself gripping his fingers with a strength she didn’t know she possessed.

Nick drew back then, but instead of looking smug at her obvious weakness, he appeared as moved as she. Regina had to fight the urge to throw her arms around his neck and pull him back against her. All at once she wanted to cry and, indeed, when she spoke she sounded tearful.

“I need time, Nick.”

“All the time you need, love,” he said in a gentle voice.

A prickling of memory touched her then, as though he had said almost those same words to her once before. But when?
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she said.

Nick simply continued to watch her, but Regina knew what he was thinking. Sure or unsure, it didn’t matter, for the future was no longer theirs to decide.
Destiny...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cynthia Wicklund
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466039971

Cynthia Wicklund

Cynthia Wicklund is a former Golden Heart finalist who writes Historical and Gothic romance and Urban Fantasy with romantic elements. She is currently published with Blush, the mainstream imprint of Ellora's Cave Publishing.

Book preview

THIEF OF SOULS

by

Cynthia Wicklund

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Cynthia Wicklund

Thief of Souls

Copyright 2011 by Cynthia Wicklund

License Notes

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Bison font by Justin Dauer of pseudoroom design

Books written by Cynthia Wicklund can be obtained either through the author’s

Official website:

www.cynthiawicklund.com

or through select, online book retailers.

Other books by Cynthia Wicklund

THE GARDEN SERIES

In the Garden of Temptation

In the Garden of Seduction

In the Garden of Disgrace

In the Garden of Deceit

Thief of Souls

***

DEDICATION

To Joan Reeves, mega-talented author and good friend, for all her support over the years. And to Adina Reeves, artist extraordinaire, without whose generous advice the cover of Thief of Souls would not have happened. Thank you, ladies.

***

CHAPTER 1

February—Present Day San Francisco

She was beautiful. Not physically—never had been—although in recent months she had begun to deteriorate noticeably, her appearance haggard, almost emaciated. But it wasn’t the veneer that interested Nick. It was the sweet emanation from within that had captured his attention, had kept him coming back far longer than he could remember. Tonight she took his breath away.

Nick watched her from the shadows, his lovely Cheryl, while she undressed. He knew she was aware of him standing there, patiently waiting. Avidly waiting. However, she gave no indication of such as she removed the blouse she wore from her fragile, bird-like limbs. She undid the button at her waist, and her skirt slipped to the floor, pooling languidly at her feet. Stepping free of the garment, she moved across the bedroom as if in a trance, the silk of her chemise whispering softly against her translucent skin.

She stopped at a small dresser and mirror and picked up a brush, pulling it through her short dark hair—somewhat lifeless now—although he never saw her glance at her reflection. After a few indifferent strokes she replaced the brush next to a box of matches.

A pair of candles in iron candlesticks also rested on the dresser. She lit the wicks of both, the sound of the match flaring loudly in the stillness. Sulfur and burning wax singed the air as she picked up the candles and placed one on each of the two bedside tables. She crossed the room again and turned off the only lamp, casting the room into flickering, shadowy darkness.

Her preparations complete, Cheryl climbed onto the foot of the oversized bed, facing away from the headboard. Coming up on her knees, she moved to the edge of the mattress. Only then did he see life return to her eyes as she searched for him where he had melted into the blackness.

Nicky? She held out her arms to him. Nicky, please.

Nick stepped forward, naked, the candlelight exposing him.

A sigh like the soughing of a lonely wind escaped her pale lips when she spotted him, and her gaze took on an unnatural glow. She loved him unconditionally. Mindlessly.

He knew what she saw when she looked at him, and he knew without conceit. He was dark, dark eyes, dark hair, with high cheekbones, Slavic in appearance. His body was long and lean and strong. And he was handsome, profoundly so, charismatically so—touched by Magic. The only thing to mar the perfection was the mark on his right cheek. Even after endless years, it ached occasionally, reminding him, always reminding him.

Nicky, she purred again, and he felt her desire flow out to him, giving him permission.

Because of that permission already a small ember of heat lay banked in his belly. Tonight she would relinquish herself one last time, and tonight would be the sweetest. Only a tiny part of what he sought remained, but it was the choicest part, because the last was jealously guarded and reluctantly given. And give freely she must. He could not demand it, could not ease it away without her knowing, although he could use every beguiling artifice at his disposal to make her believe that was what she wanted most.

He walked noiselessly across the room, aware that Cheryl watched him with rabid eyes. He reached the bed and, continuing to stand, took her in his arms. How frail she was, he thought, pressing her face against his neck and petting her hair. She clutched at his shoulders with bony fingers that dug into his flesh with surprising strength. Nick sensed the warmth of what he wanted bubbling gently upward from deep inside her, and his breath quickened. He forced himself to go easy, fearing he might crush her fine bones beneath the onslaught of his need.

How long had he been sipping at the well of her soul? Months he had been patient or had it been years? Time had little meaning when one had so much of it to spare. His goal had been single-minded, though. He must have all that was good in her, not just some, not even most, but all. Only then would the craving cease. At least for a while.

Cheryl stirred. He understood that she wanted something from him—she wanted him to make love to her. Ordinarily, lovemaking enhanced the transference, creating an extraordinary combination of earthy sensation and spiritual lust. But not tonight, not when he was this close to his goal. Tonight sex would be a distraction, and he wanted nothing to distract him from the ecstasy.

With hands that shook with suppressed excitement, Nick eased the straps of her chemise from her shoulders. Her breasts were shrunken from weight loss, and her rib cage stood in relief against her torso. He remembered when she had been plumper, more pleasing—if not pretty—to the eye. Still her inner beauty beckoned, and all else seemed insignificant by contrast.

He slid his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head in his palm, and set his mouth with infinite care against the pulse at her throat. Nick groaned for, even now with his power in check, he could feel her spirit seeping forth as it tingled his lips, a bewitching taste of what was to come.

She was his. He sensed acquiescence in every line of her body. No longer would she resist him, his Cheryl, knowingly or unknowingly. His goal was her goal. Later, when he could not escape his thoughts, he would be forced to admit how he had deceived her, and the pain of regret would seize him. Not now, however. Now she was his and, even as he acknowledged the remorse that would surely come, the hunger swelled, blinding his reasoning.

Nick leaned back to look at her, and she returned his gaze. Obsidian chips for eyes mirrored his greed. He could not contain the lascivious smile that slid across his features.

Ah, Cheryl, my love. He deliberately dipped his voice, the melodious timbre of his words calling to her like a narcotic. Do you wish to please me?

She nodded, mutely, without hesitation.

Say it, he said.

I wish to please you, Nicky.

The final gate was opened.

Exultant, continuing to hold her, Nick ran his open hands over her spine, almost—but not quite—touching her. She remained immobile, still kneeling on the bed, her own arms hanging limply at her sides. Up and down he continued the motion, slowly, coaxing her. As he did, his eyes drifted shut. Static rose between them, followed by a pulling sensation, as though his palms were magnetized. And in a way perhaps they were. The feeling was compelling and utterly delightful. His hands began to heat.

Cheryl hummed, an odd tuneless sound that kept rhythm with the movement, and Nick was drawn in by the mindless cadence, like a snake charmer who is charmed by the snake. He could feel the warmth of her spirit entering his fingertips, moving through his wrists and along the length of his arms. All at once he was overwhelmed by impatience. Heedless of the need to go easy, he crushed her against his naked chest. Skin to skin, that’s how it worked best.

The ember in his belly burst into flame.

Her humming increased to a high-pitched wail as she strained against him, no longer passive, but aiding in the transference. Now he did not have to persuade her. The innocence in her soul flowed into him, weeping from her pores like the tears of an angel, pure and infinitely rare. He feasted on her sweetness, the erotic current between them sapping her, filling him.

Burn, he began to burn. He was a breathing torch, the flame in his gut igniting his chest and surging through his extremities. Nick’s blood gushed hot, rich and fluid as molten gold. His vision blurred as if steamy mist had invaded his sight, and he wanted to howl his pleasure like the beast he had become.

Even as he emptied her, immersed in the savage heat of the ecstasy, Nick remained cognizant of the fact that he must stop at precisely the right moment or risk leaching the darker side of her soul. He shied away from the darkness, preferring the purity that rose to the surface much as cream rose to the surface of fresh milk. Not that the darkness didn’t tempt him. Oh, it did, yes, indeed, with its seductive corruption. But experience had taught him that it had a bitter aftertaste that left him feeling dissatisfied and apprehensive. And fearful—the darkness made him fearful.

The tang of something acid and alarmingly familiar crossed his senses, and Nick immediately released his grip on the woman in his arms. Cheryl fell to the mattress like a cloth doll, unmoving.

Lost to everything but his own gratification, he reeled away from her. She had given him what he had wanted—that part of her untainted by evil. The good in her soul dwelled within him, rekindling his own barren spirit. God in Heaven, for the first time in a very long time he felt replete! Still, he couldn’t quite ignore the reedy voice that drifted in his direction as he staggered toward the sliding glass door on the other side of the room.

Nicky, I’m cold, a shudder punctuated her words, s-so…cold.

Unfortunately, he could do nothing for her now.

Ripping apart the sheers that hung at the door, he fumbled with the latch on the metal frame. He cursed violently in an ancient tongue, for the heat swirling in his system had swelled his fingers almost beyond his ability to use them. The latch gave way suddenly, and he thrust the glass panel open. A chilled breeze, very damp, swept into the room, carrying the sheers aloft. They floated slowly downward, then back up again, fluttering like transparent wraiths in the eerie candlelight.

Nick stepped outside into an icy rain. The tenth-story condo balcony provided a magnificent view of San Francisco in the hours before dawn, the twinkling lights of the city, the Golden Gate Bridge gracefully spanning the bay. He noted it absently, too consumed by the inferno still raging within, the ecstasy that drenched him in exquisite sensation.

He wrapped his swollen fingers around the iron railing that protected the porch and, glancing down, was arrested by the sight of his nakedness. In the dark of the balcony his body, radiant with fever, glowed with Cheryl’s spirit. He was actually casting illumination! Fascinating. Even more fascinating was the freezing rain that hissed off his heated skin, forming tiny whirls of vapor that were carried away on the frigid night air. He drew in a deep, nippy breath, cooling the fire in his lungs.

How long Nick lingered there, mesmerized by the effects of the ecstasy, he did not know. Nor did he care. Tonight his enjoyment was boundless. After what seemed a very long time, however, something disturbed him—perhaps movement within the room—he wasn’t certain. He turned and walked inside. When the warmer air of the bedroom struck him, he immediately began to steam. He must have looked horrific standing there, like a scorched demon returning from a sojourn in hell. Uncomfortable with how close that image came to the truth, he pushed the thought aside.

Cheryl?

No answer.

Cheryl, my love, please, he adopted his persuasive voice, let me help you.

The overhead light flashed on.

Nick fell back in shock. Cheryl stood by the door leading to the hall, as naked as he, holding a small pistol. And she was pointing the weapon at him. Her aim was as steady as if her hand had been carved from stone.

Help me, Nicky? You expect me to believe that you want to help me?

Could that harsh, waspish voice be hers? Nick never failed to be amazed by the alteration in his victims once the transference had been completed. Her body was shriveled and stringy like dried meat, her dark hair now shot with gray. But that wasn’t what repelled him. It was the look in her huge black eyes, eyes that resembled poker holes burnt in her fleshless face. Eyes that reflected her hatred. She was worse than a soulless thing, for all the ugliness remained.

Still he had to try. Cheryl, I—

Her words cut across his speech. I know what you are.

Unmasked. In the end he was always unmasked—always. Not who, she had said, but what. The last of the heat simmering in Nick’s gut was doused by his exposure in a way the cold outside could never have done. And with it came the remorse.

What am I? he asked, his voice barely above a tortured whisper.

A vampire.

He flinched in disgust. One of those filthy things?

She laughed, an odd, mirthless sound. You pick a strange time to be fastidious, Nicky. You take something that doesn’t belong to you. I fail to see the difference.

Not your life! Why did he feel compelled to make her see that difference? A vampire causes an unnatural death.

And you, she screeched, her mood changing like quicksilver, cause an unnatural life!

Not without your permission.

She narrowed her eyes at the quiet words. I’ve changed my mind.

I’m sorry…so sorry. Pity filled Nick for the pathetic creature he had created. The pain of regret was almost more than he could bear.

Then I will have to kill you. No emotion accompanied the sinister statement, only conviction.

You can’t kill me, he said sadly.

Cheryl pulled the trigger, and the bullet slammed into him, piercing his heart. Nick knew his heart had been hit, for he felt the organ convulse just before a new kind of pain brought him tumbling to his knees. Dazed, he stared at his breast as a trickle of blood oozed from the neat round wound below his left nipple. He closed his eyes slowly, trying to come to terms with the agony that now spread in wave after excruciating wave through his entire chest. When he opened them, his gaze had shifted to his would-be executioner.

Cheryl was watching him in a clinical way as if she were a lab technician and he were a scrap of tissue on a slide. Do you know what is the oddest part of all this? she asked, then proceeded without waiting for his reply. "No? You didn’t even seem surprised when I accused you of being a vampire, as if those monsters actually exist. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. I can hardly believe you exist. But you do."

She pulled the trigger again.

***

You were on duty last night, Craig. What was the excitement in the OR a few hours ago? Regina Miles dropped her tray, loaded with the essentials of a healthy breakfast, including a gooey cinnamon roll, on the cafeteria table. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to her friend. I understand Dr. Ingram resurrected someone from the dead.

Hey, Reggie, Dr. Craig Williams mumbled over a mouthful of food. He paused to swallow, nodding his blonde head at the same time. Yeah, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything like it. It’s one for the medical books, that’s for certain. He ate a bite of egg.

You were there?

Me and every other surgeon who got to the surgery theater in time—and quite a few others who had no reason to be there except to satisfy their curiosity. The word spread faster than a gasoline fire. It was classic Ingram—the man’s a friggin’ genius—but I swear there was something else at work. He stopped chewing and looked at her through hazel eyes that crinkled around the edges, usually with humor. He wasn’t laughing now. That patient should be dead.

Regina pulled apart her cinnamon roll. He’s young, isn’t he? In good shape? Healthy?

Early to mid-thirties, I’m guessing. And yeah, I’d say he’s in good shape, although with a guy in the condition he was in when he got here, it’s hard to tell for sure.

That explains it then.

Look, Reg, you’re not understanding. He was shot in the heart.

Nicked it?

No, damn it, right through the middle. Destroyed vital tissue. By all rights, the thing should’ve stopped pumping the moment he was hit. When they wheeled him into the operating room, Ingram said it wasn’t worth the time to open him up, and that’s before he could see how bad the damage really was.

But he did. Open him up, I mean.

Yep. Craig took a gulp of his coffee and then hoisted his lean six-foot frame out of his seat. They’ve got the patient in the ICU. I’m going up there shortly to check on him. Ingram asked me to keep a watch until he could get back to the hospital this afternoon. He blew a tired breath through his lips. I hope I can make it. I’m going on fumes at the moment.

Regina laughed. Like I feel sorry for you. Try being an intern again. Last night was the first night in weeks I haven’t been on the graveyard shift. And then I missed all the excitement.

I’ve done my penance, m’dear. He turned to leave.

She stopped him. Craig?

Yeah?

Would you mind if I take a gander at your patient while you’re there? Regina kept her voice casual, but he gave her an odd look, anyway. She felt her face warm.

Why? He’s a guy in a coma. Nothing more to see than that.

Professional interest?

You’re not kidding me. You heard the nurses who were in the ER and the OR talking, didn’t you? She merely stared at him. Well, didn’t you? Come on, what were they saying?

That he was a remarkable-looking man.

He raised his brows.

Okay, okay. I believe the expression one of the younger, more impressionable nurses used was ‘hottie.’ She found herself unable to meet his knowing gaze. Stuffing a piece of roll in her mouth, she began to chew with unnecessary gusto.

He barked a laugh, drawing the attention of several people from the adjoining tables. You women—

She cut him off before he could get started. Yeah, right, as if every male in the hospital wouldn’t be at the patient’s door if she just happened to be the centerfold of the month.

He threw his hands up in mock defeat. Point taken, he said, grinning. I’ll be there in about two hours unless they call me sooner, and I’ll give you the grand tour of our miracle patient. He leaned his hands on the table and gave her a conspiratorial wink. Now, if only you would take that kind of interest in me.

I’ll work on it, she said, pursing her lips to keep from smiling.

He straightened. You do that. As he moved away from the table, he tossed over his shoulder, Take care of my tray, would you?

Regina watched him retreat across the hospital cafeteria. Craig Williams was pleasant-looking enough in a breezy sort of way, with his fair looks and open personality. And if his early success were any indication, he had a promising career as a surgeon ahead of him. Steady and predictable was how she thought of Craig. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t be interested. They spent time together because he asked, and she enjoyed his company. Thankfully, he had the good sense not to pressure her.

In all frankness, though, Regina didn’t know what he saw in her, anyway. At twenty-eight, she’d spent the better part of her life feeling like the optimal candidate for the Miss Average contest. She wasn’t short or tall, fat or skinny, and her thick, shoulder-length hair was a nondescript shade somewhere between red and brown—auburn she had been told more than once. Perhaps. Her features were even, along with her teeth, nothing offensively out of proportion. And she did have nice eyes, she supposed, large and green with dark lashes. Occasionally, a man would gaze into them with an expression verging on mushy, professing to find her beautiful, and she would always wonder why. Not since her teens had she been moved to respond in kind.

Her decision to become a doctor had been the turning point in her young life. A natural ability in the sciences combined with a desire to do something worthwhile had guided her choice. College had enriched her mind, preparing her—or so she had believed—for the rigors of a medical professional. Practice was never the same as theory. She was overworked, perpetually fatigued, and secretly insecure as to whether she had the courage to make it.

Regina glanced down at her half-eaten breakfast and grimaced then gathered up the remains, along with Craig’s unsightly mess. Discarding the trays on a mountain of other dirty trays, she headed for the exit.

She entered the elevator just outside the cafeteria and punched the button that led to the pediatric ward on the fourth floor. The doors closed with an efficient swish. Suppressing a yawn, her eyes drifted shut as she allowed the rising movement of the car to lull her for a moment. On day shifts again, Regina knew she ought to be grateful, but the constant schedule changes she endured, not to mention being on call twenty-four hours a day, kept her forever exhausted. Her eyes opened as the doors did.

Janet Myers, the floor’s no-nonsense head nurse, met her as Regina stepped off the elevator. You’re late, doctor. You have a patient who’s been asking for you.

Nurse Myers, as wide as she was tall and somewhere in her fifties—no one seemed to know where exactly, and she wasn’t telling—had a brusque manner that managed to alienate many of the physicians who worked with her. The patients under her care, all of them children, came first in her estimation, and she never bothered to pretend otherwise, handing out lectures with impartiality whenever and to whomever she deemed it necessary. Regina liked her, having detected the tender heart hidden beneath the uncompromising attitude. Besides, the woman had been unstinting in her willingness to teach.

I’m sorry, Nurse Myers, Regina said, keeping her manner contrite and respectful—it served no purpose to deliberately provoke her. I overslept. I went to bed last night with the intention of sleeping, but I’m usually awake at that hour. I’ll get used to the new schedule.

Just in time for it to change again. If you want to be a pediatrician, you must learn that children wait for no one.

Regina nodded. Who’s been asking for me?

Bobby Allen was brought in at three a.m. by ambulance.

She felt a quick stab of apprehension. How’s he doing?

Better now, although they tell me it was touch and go for a while.

Which room?

Four-twelve.

Regina walked the floor rapidly, passing the nurse’s station without greeting anyone. Room four-twelve loomed in front of her and, much to her surprise, she had to pause and steady her breath before she could enter. She was aware of Nurse Myers following behind her. Rather than show her sudden weakness, she forced herself to cross the threshold.

She was still unprepared for the wrench she felt when she saw him. Bobby lay, the covers tucked military-style around him, hardly a lump in the antiseptic, metal-framed bed. He was thinner than when she had seen him last. Sandy-headed and freckled, he resembled a cherub, a very sick cherub.

At sixteen, he looked years younger, a victim of soft tissue sarcoma. In the seven months since Regina had begun her internship at San Francisco General, this was the fourth time he had been admitted, the last only weeks before. One day he would enter these sterile walls and never leave.

Bobby was dying, and she wondered how he could be so stoical and courageous in the face of his illness. She supposed when one knew that death would pay an early call, some measure of acceptance could be expected. Still, she marveled at his quiet dignity.

Bobby? She reached for the chart held by Nurse Myers and quickly glanced over it.

He turned to her, his young face strained with suffering, but his clear blue eyes were alert, and he smiled a greeting. Dr. Miles, I was afraid you didn’t work here anymore.

Regina returned the smile, relieved that, though his body was frail, his attitude was chipper. Reggie, remember?

Reggie, he said shyly.

Don’t worry about my leaving yet. I still have more than five months of internship to complete, and I hope to serve my residency here as well. You’ll be seeing me for a long time to come.

Oh, well, by then…

She let the morbid implication of his words pass without comment, although she shared a look with Nurse Myers. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought we agreed that you would avoid this place like the plague.

Bobby struggled to sit up then gave up the effort. His breathing sounded labored, the result of tumors that had migrated to his lungs. Mom freaks out. She was convinced I was about to die. He paused, ostensibly to clear his throat. I hate to scare her.

Understood. I’ve got a mom, too.

He yawned, and she noted how exhausted he appeared.

Have you slept at all? she asked.

Not since last night about ten.

All right then. I’ve got my rounds to make, but I’ll come back later this afternoon to check on you. I expect you to be rested.

He nodded and smiled again, an infectious smile. All at once she saw the man he could have been—would have been—given time. Charm, he had lots