Soul Survivor (16 page)

W
e left the crime scene with notes and pictures of Luis's lifeless body haunting my thoughts. Stoned. He had been stoned to death while tied up by Spanish moss—a plant indigenous to his native New Orleans. Was it my fault he was dead? The fact that he had taken an interest in me at the club . . . could that be why he had been a target?

“This crest . . .” Damien held up his phone with a picture of the crest on it. “Do you recognize it? Either of you?”

George cradled the phone between two hands as though it were a precious gemstone, narrowing his eyes while pulling it close to his face. “I-I don't. I'm sorry.”

He held it up to me and I examined it equally closely, my eyes narrowing. “I don't know—it, it sort of looks familiar.” I took a deep breath. I needed to be sure before I brought Lord Buckley into this. And if I did, I needed Julian to do so. “The only reason I recognized the one on Moe Kaelica's body so quickly was because it was my own.”

Damien muttered a curse under his breath. “There's got to be some section of the library where we can see various family crests. That will be yours and George's job today. Research on family crests.”

George sent a glance my way, rolling his eyes. “Great. Stuffy geeks and dusty books. Right up my alley.”

“And where are we going now?” I asked, giving George a look. Now was not the time to get prissy.

Damien smirked from behind the wheel. “Just as you suggested. We are off to the impound lot to get a reading on Lena's car.”

“Well, why do we have to come to that? If I'm going to be in a boring library, I should take a nap first. Otherwise, I'll fall asleep on all those books.”

“You're coming with me,” Damien snapped, cranky as ever, “because I want to get this done ASAP. And it would take too long to drop you off first.”

He turned the wheel sharply and pulled up to a chain link gate with circles of barbed wire at the top. Braking, he leaned out the window and placed his hand on the keypad. The air around us buzzed and he closed his eyes with the humming. After a moment, he pulled away and punched in a code. The steel creaked as it slid open just wide enough for a car to pull through.

Looking at me, he arched an eyebrow, gaze flitting down to my cleavage before he averted his eyes back to the road ahead. He was peacocking, fluffing his feathers before me, and I hated to admit that it was damned impressive. He took his foot off the brake, and the car accelerated through the now open driveway. Once inside, he put the car in park.

“Wait here,” he grumbled before clomping out and slamming the door behind him. He chatted to a man in uniform, pulling out a piece of paper and his badge. Finally Damien signaled for us to follow.

“Yes, I recall the car. Tragic story, that one,” the guard said. “She was so young. I hope you catch the bastard.”

“Us, too,” I responded.

“Well, here it is. You need anything else, just give me a holler.” He left us standing there in front of a green Honda. Nothing spectacular about it. Anything that was considered evidence would have already been bagged up and processed. The upholstery inside the car was dank and mildewed. The smell of death and mold. Some dried papers were around the backseat—textbooks that looked as though they had been through a flood. Economics and foreign policy. Smart girl. I couldn't help but wonder what she might have done with that knowledge if she'd had the chance.

Damien opened the trunk. Again, not much there. A spare tire. An air pump. A duffel bag that was unzipped. Damien tossed it to me. “Look through it. See if anything stands out to you.”

“Where does she go to school?” I asked while rifling around her gym bag. On top were some gym clothes—folded. Unused, it seemed. Tennis shoes. Socks tucked together. A lock. Just your average gym bag accessories.

“Night classes at the local community college,” he muttered while flipping through one of the textbooks.

Placing a hand on the car, Damien closed his eyes. The entire car began to buzz and when he opened his eyes, he looked more confused than when we began.

“Well? Anything?”

He nodded, but still looked confused. “Apparently . . .” He swallowed and went from staring at the car to staring at me. “Apparently, it was raining inside the car. Lena died . . . no, drowned . . . in her own car.” He swiveled around, sitting on the bumper to think.

I went back to searching the gym bag. At the bottom, there was a notepad. Several dates and times were scribbled in messy cursive. “Damien—check this out,” I handed him the paper. “Looks like she had some meetings arranged.”

He looked closer and after a moment, tossed the pad back at me. “It's written on an ordering tablet for Hooters. It's probably just her work schedule for the week.”

“Do they even have a Hooters in Salt Lake City?” George asked. And I had to admit, it was a damn good question.

“We'll have to verify that, I guess, huh?”

“At Hooters? I'll verify the Hell outta that.” Damien smirked.

My eyes lowered into a scowl. Then I remembered that I'd blown a guy right before screwing Damien's brains out and decided to choose my battles better. “George, is there anything in the front seat?”

“Just a bunch of CDs and some trash. Girlfriend was studying languages—a weird one, too. She's got up to level four on the ‘How to Speak Serbian' discs.”

“Serbian?” Damien glanced to me, looking as perplexed as I felt. “That's a weird choice . . .”

My blood ran cold. Lena
Vlasik.
“I think I know whose crest is on Lena's chest.”

“T
he fucking vampire's? Are you kidding me?” Damien's voice was almost yelling. Almost, but not quite.

I nodded. “That's why he's here following the case, I bet. She's his descendent.”

“That dude is Serbian?” Damien's feet pounded against the pavement as he paced back and forth.

“Damn,” George muttered. “I need to find me some Serbians to date. . . .”

I nodded, shooting George another chastising glance. “Well, back then we just described that region as Balkan. But, yes, essentially Dejan is Serbian. Seems a little too coincidental, wouldn't you say?”

“I guess we'll get a chance to ask him tonight,” Damien grumbled, plunging his hand into his hair. “Why the fuck is this guy killing off the descendants of immortals?”

I looked to George, whose face drained of color. “Maybe one of them is my descendant?”

“Do you know any of your descendants?” I rubbed his shoulder and glanced at Damien, who had managed to stop pacing.

George shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Well, we're in the genealogy capital of the world. And this certainly narrows down our research—we can look up specific crests of people we know at the genealogy headquarters in the middle of the city to research. Then if that doesn't work, we can expand the search.”

“This is the genealogy capital of the world?”

Damien scrolled through his phone, answering halfheartedly. “Yep. It has to do with their religion—the church owns the website FamilySearch.org—you know with all those commercials.”

“I had no idea that was all based here,” George answered.

“I know. Strange, right?” Damien pushed a button on the rental keys and his car beeped and unlocked.

George looked to me and then Damien. “That could explain why all this is happening here in Salt Lake City, guys. Weren't you trying to find the link as to why all the deaths were here? If this is the genealogy capital of the world—and these murders depend entirely on discovering ancestry . . .” He faded off and Damien's head snapped up.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he whispered and opened the driver's side door. “I'll drop you both back at the hotel first.” He slid his phone into his back pocket and climbed in behind the wheel.

When we pulled up to the semi-circle in front of the hotel, Adrienne was sitting outside waiting. Dark sunglasses hid her face from the early morning sun and two fingers circled her temple as if trying to rub away a memory.

“How ya feelin', sunshine?” My smirk was itching at the corners of my mouth even though I was desperately trying to keep a straight face.

I could feel Adrienne's eyes on me from behind her shades as we approached. “I promise you that if you rub this in, I'll douse you in holy water when you're asleep,” she grumbled.

“Awww, and here I thought we had bonded.”

Adrienne's head twitched to George, who, taking the hint quickly, rolled his eyes. “I'm runnin' upstairs to catch a nap before we need to hit the books, anyway.” He kissed my temple before darting for the elevator.

Adrienne turned her attention back to me. “Bonded? You ruined mine and Drew's only date night. Then alerted me to the fact that you'd sleep with my boyfriend under certain circumstances. And you think we've bonded?”

I inwardly cringed. “Well—it sounds so bad when you put it like that.”

“It
is
bad, Monica.”

“It doesn't change the fact that I was right. Last night would have been a mistake for you.”

Adrienne's chest heaved with a deep breath. “It has been months for me. Months without any sort of sexual contact. Do you know what that's like?”

My insides twisted. I definitely knew how that felt. That conflicted feeling. Adrienne was lucky—she had been taught early on that those feelings, even in an angel, were normal. I was not so lucky. And all through my angel time, I thought I was a freak. I thought for sure I could not be God's creature and still be having such impure feelings.

When I didn't answer, she snorted, then lifted her sunglasses on top of her head. “Look who I'm asking. You probably don't even wait a day when you feel turned on.” She dropped her glasses back to her nose, making sure to push past my shoulder on the way to Damien's car.