Soothsayer, p.1
Soothsayer, page 1
Copyright © 2019 by Canada Jackson
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by copyright law.
Published in Paphos, Cyprus
Vala House Publishing
Contents
Dedication
Foreword
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
Also By
About the Author
To all the women who rise from the ashes to reclaim the destiny they were denied.
And a special thanks to Megan Holly for ripping out pages and my heart during the editing process, and then putting everything back together better than before.
Foreword
Content and Trigger Warning: This book contains scenes of graphic violence, including depictions of physical harm, intense combat, and acts that may be distressing or triggering to some readers.
Additionally, it includes adult content, such as sexual situations, explicit language, and mature themes. This book explores religious themes that may challenge or provoke different beliefs and perspectives. Please be aware that these elements are intended for adult audiences and may not be suitable for all readers.
Reader discretion is advised.
It is important to consider your personal sensitivities and comfort level before engaging with this book.
Author note: It is a not a quick steamy read but a full-length novel that is part of an ongoing series with a HEA for the main characters. It can be read as a stand alone novel.
Prologue
The room should have been warm on that midsummer's night, but frost grew on the salmon-pink walls when he entered. Salomé hunkered down on her knees, clutching a crucifix to her chest as she begged the Almighty to remove him from her room. His flesh was puckered in red and black scales, his eyes two yellow slits in his contorted face. The two horns that protruded from his head curved down behind his ears, and he offered her a gnarled hand. Black talons scraped her arm as she cowered from him.
"Please, please, please!" She abandoned her prayers and begged him to leave instead.
"Do not fear me, my daughter. I am here to let you know you are mine and that I will watch over you and return when you are ready to serve me."
"I will never serve you," Salomé whispered as she found the courage to open her eyes and face him head-on.
He filled her room. His dark black wings scraped the flowered wallpaper as he lowered them. Her attempt to scream was halted in her throat. She was immobile, unable to stand and run or shout for help. She could do nothing but kneel and beg.
"I am sorry to scare you with my true form, but I prefer to be truthful and honest with you." His breath was like sulfur, searing her nostrils and making her eyes burn. The heat that radiated off him was the only warmth in the room. "Please know I will never hurt you. Why would I hurt a beloved child that belongs to me?"
"I do not belong to you." She rebuked him, summoning up every biblical phrase they had taught her to bind him, but he merely smiled.
"I will leave you now, Salomé. Until the time is right. Just remember that you are mine. Your future belongs to me. Your life belongs to me. You are my daughter. A Daughter of the Night."
"I am not. I rebuke you, Satan. I pray the blood..."
"Please," he interrupted her, "do not blaspheme."
"It is your unwillingness to give up a flesh sacrifice that will one day put you in my arms where you belong."
Chapter one
Detective Grant Saunders turned off the humming fluorescent light and flicked on his muted desk lamp instead. The dim surroundings made him feel a little calmer, and he took a deep breath, hoping the slight change in the atmosphere would make a difference to his guest. Sieffre was skittish by nature. He needed to ensure that if the brothers managed to convince him to visit that evening, he would stay after entering the building. If he came and left, it wouldn't be the first time. Grant could count on both hands how many times Sieffre had walked in, only to shake his head and stalk off with no explanation and without a backward glance.
He was an enigma.
Weird, and certainly a little mad.
He defied explanation in so many ways.
But then again, so did his gift.
He looked out the office window once more to see if the sleek black sports car that Sieffre favored was outside. There was still no sign of the elusive Mr. Semyaza however, or anybody else in the camera-monitored parking lot.
Darkness had descended on Johannesburg, covering the city with a helpful veil to usher in the night's habitual crime. Hookers left their slumber, took their drugs, and moved into the streets. Street children lowered their hands extended in begging and clasped their glue sticks instead. The lucky ones found dark corners in broken-down buildings where they could hide until daylight returned. What would ensue until then was nothing short of mass evil. Mass evil that would become neatly typed-up reports in multicolored files on the old mahogany desk in his office.
Grant remembered how the morning pile of paperwork used to affect him. How he once wished he could move to a place where the files were dull, and the stories didn't make him feel like there was no hope for humanity. How he believed things would never get better even though he worked ceaselessly with the police force to clear the streets of deviants. That was his old mindset before he found a unique way to make a difference. Before he blurred the line between acceptable and improper means of fighting evil.
Awards spread across the wall boasting of his gains in the fight against the depraved. He wished he could feel proud of his accomplishments, but for every criminal he caught, two more emerged from the depths of hell.
He prayed Sieffre would help him catch the latest.
He glanced guiltily at the "no smoking" sign as he lit the cigarette, but he needed to steady his nerves before the meeting. The dark car that pulled into the parking lot interrupted two seconds of nicotine bliss. His stomach lurched, and he tempered his reaction. No sense in counting chickens before they hatched.
He sprang into action.
Despite Braith telling him not to bother doing anything special for Sieffre's visit, he had a plan. Sieffre was gifted psychometric and obtained readings from everything his fingers touched. But that didn't mean he was eager to exercise his ability. He lived a strange and calculated existence that ensured the opposite. But Grant needed his help desperately and wanted to increase his chances for the meeting to take place. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the container of pencils. They were not an easy find. Countless calls were made until he found a company that guaranteed no hands were used in the packing process.
This box had been filled by a machine and he hoped Sieffre appreciated the gift that would allow him to press the elevator buttons without pain. A gift for a wealthy male that everything. One that he could use later as an avid sketcher.
He returned to the elevator and pressed the button, opening the box without touching the tips. He shook it until a few stuck out and left them in the center of the elevator floor and pushed ground. This meeting would hopefully not end with Sieffre walking out of the building before he even stepped into the elevator. He went back to his office to wait. A previous meeting failed because Sieffre did not like his presence in reception. So, this time, he would sit and patiently wait at his desk while monitoring the still visible elevator doors.
Ground.
He hoped the door stayed open so that Sieffre could see the pencils and appreciate the effort to ease his painful gift.
1, 2, 3, 4.
The doors opened.
He blew his last breath out as his stomach lurched again, and he was sorry he hadn't taken one more drag of the abandoned smoke. Sieffre was finally in the building, and by the looks of it, this time he was not in a hurry to leave. He watched as his visitor moved forward slowly, his head roaming from side to side, taking in every small detail of his surroundings.
Grant eyed him carefully, scared to make a move. His elusive guest exuded strength. Tall with dark hair shaved at the sides, the top neatly sculpted into a short Mohawk. He wore black denim and a dark shirt that clung to his muscled frame. Strange tattoos curled up his strong forearms and disappeared into his clothes. He lingered in the reception area near the front desk for a little longer than Grant could stand. When Sieffre continued to hesitate, he moved onward quickly to attempt a greeting. He was partially afraid that his visitor had not seen him in the dim office, but also terrified that if he approached him too quickly, h is difficult guest would leave.
Sieffre did not acknowledge him, even when he stood in clear sight. He was pleased that he held one of the pencils and twirled it through his fingers like he was accustomed to performing this trick. He waited and watched, not sure if he should speak or if it would ruin all possibility of him staying.
Still not looking in his direction, Sieffre moved closer to the reception desk. The twirling pencil stopped with a click as he flicked it to point at a framed photo on the front counter.
"Is this her desk?" He tapped the photograph of the woman with the tight blonde bun and a clean, makeup-free face, standing hand in hand with a smiling man at her side.
Grant was confused by his questions and became even more so when Sieffre poked the frame again, knocking it over.
"Yes," he finally found his voice. She was his mousy little office assistant, terrified of the world, and yet daily, she diligently typed up the reports of rape and violent murder without complaint. She was efficient, hardworking, and silent. Just the way he preferred.
"And the guy is her...?"
"Fiancé," Grant replied.
Sieffre snorted in response. He folded his arms with a pensive frown, strong arms crossing over his dark t-shirt, drawing Grant's attention to how freakishly neat he was. Clean simple lines, always black. The few times he had been close enough to study him; he never had a hair out of place.
He looked directly at Grant, and for a moment, he was glad that this brother's ability did not include mind reading, as his thoughts raced from one extreme to another.
Sieffre's hawkish blue eyes narrowed as he gazed at him. They were piercing, arrogant, and odd. Much like his brothers, he was exceedingly handsome. He exuded an air of confidence that disarmed the males in his vicinity. Even the strongest and toughest of his officers gave the brothers a wide berth when they came to the precinct. They all looked alarmingly similar. Tall and lithe, with rippling muscled bulk, with gazes that were distant, aloof, and cold. Unfriendly gazes that didn't deter females from swooning and preening for their attention. Grant had seen it in action with Braith. The brother he had the closest relationship with. He watched him acknowledge the attention and move on without engaging in any small talk, no matter how aggressive the female became.
He wondered again if the brothers were celibate. He had never seen them with women, probably because they were all immortal and thousands of years old. Perhaps watching the women they loved wither and die made them abstain or seek a short one-night stand when the need became too much. He realized Sieffre still gazed at him, and he coughed in embarrassment at his racing thoughts. The brothers were an enigma he pondered over frequently, but this wasn't the time to dwell.
This was the first time that Sieffre looked directly at him. Grant had only ever seen his gaze from the side, and now that his piercing stare was locked on his own, he thought for a moment that his inhumanity appeared somewhat obvious. The pale shade of blue was too light, too ethereal to be normal. He understood why he and the brothers preferred to wear their shades.
"Where is it?" Sieffre seemed to have lost his patience.
Nothing about him appeared remotely normal, not even the accent that Grant had never placed.
After a brief stutter, he quickly regained his confidence. Gaining Sieffre's help was too important for him to fail. He moved back to his drawer and retrieved the running shoe he had kept in a plastic bag for weeks now. With great caution, he placed it on the desk and held his breath.
He watched as Sieffre neared with a suspicious gaze, ducking his head at the entrance. The building contractor swore the frame was 6ft6 high when he added the private office six months ago. Clearly, he had lied.
He stopped in front of the table and looked at the shoe, his fingers still twirling the pencil. His strange eyes moved from the running shoe on Grant's desk and back to the reception area, where the photograph he poked still lay on its side. Grant couldn't understand why Sieffre would care about the receptionist he had never met. Then again, who could comprehend anything going on in the man's mind before him?
"How many victims?" Sieffre's question returned Grant to the importance of the meeting.
"Six." Grant experienced a flicker of hope. They were talking more than they ever had before.
"How old?"
"Young, always boys, always younger than ten."
Sieffre folded his arms and looked at the shoe with a deep sigh. Grant realized that perhaps the victims' ages had brought Sieffre this far. A serial killer of children would tweak even the coldest of hearts.
"You're certain this shoe is his?"
Grant nodded. It was a key piece of evidence found at the last crime scene of victim number six until they discovered it did not contain any helpful evidence. Not even one small fiber.
Sieffre grunted and then, annoyingly, left the office, returning to the reception desk and to the photo that lay on its side. Grant panicked, but seeing him linger gave him hope. He had asked Sieffre for help exactly five times, only to watch him turn up at the precinct, shake his head, and leave. No amount of pleading, no emails and messages about the victims' plight would change his mind. Braith told Grant just getting Sieffre there was a mission. Getting him to help was something he could never guarantee.
Sieffre tucked the pencil into his pocket, and then slowly extended a hand toward the framed photograph. He flexed his fingers and then did something Grant had never seen him do before as he lifted the frame up with his bare hands.
Grant knew what would happen next.
He had witnessed it before with his brothers, Braith, and Rath, and for a moment, he wondered if he should politely look away. It totally screwed up his perception of life the last time. He wasn't sure he was ready for another dose. Sieffre's eyes flickered with light and then rolled back. His body jerked with rippled convulsions that had him screwing up his handsome face as if he were in pain. This reaction was disarming enough, but the flickering shadow that changed the left side of his face to its true demonic form made Grant turn cold.
Three life-changing seconds that made him drop to his knees the first time he witnessed it with Braith.
He was told if he witnessed them in full transition, he would find it hard to breathe. What he saw in Sieffre was a gentle reminder of what they truly were. He stared at him in awe as his face softened back to a visage that was almost normal, and Grant waited with bated breath for a revelation. He didn't fear the brothers. Even though Sieffre's true form, like Braith and Rath's, was demonic, their deeds spoke otherwise. He would trust them with his life, including the strange one before him who didn't like to make new friends.
"I'll touch the shoe," Sieffre said suddenly, and then he reached into his pocket and removed the trusted pencil. "If she hands it to me." He pointed to the photograph of his receptionist.
"But..." A million objections rose in his hurry for answers.
This psychopath was certifiably serial. Six children in one year. He needed to solve the case before he struck again. The shoe was the only solid lead they had in all this time, and it had been a dud until Grant decided to beg for Sieffre's help.
To his dismay, Sieffre walked to the elevator and pressed the button with the pencil before he tossed it across the hallway.
"Wait... when are you going to touch the evidence? Will you come back tomorrow?"
Sieffre was more interested in the pencils. "They use child labor in the factory that made these. The machines that they told you pack these pencils are actually overworked minors, illegally hired for less than a dollar a month." His tone was accusing, as if Grant should have tried harder.
Grant stared at the pencil at his feet as his mind raced. "Why?" he asked.
Why did she have to be the one to hand him the shoe?
Why wouldn't he just touch it now and tell him what he needed to know?
"The kid who packed that box was tired but happy." He looked at the pencil and shrugged as the elevator doors closed, answering only one of Grant's many questions and the only one he least needed an answer for.
Grant made the video call to Braith immediately after Sieffre's car sped out of the parking lot. He smiled when his friend appeared before him. He was tall with pitch-black hair, just like Sieffre. However, his hair was fashionably cut with a long fringe. Braith sometimes wore colors if you counted gray, beige, and white as a variety. Like his brother, he was disarming and powerful. But he was friendly.
