The Soul Taker Read online
THE SOUL TAKER
by
J.R. RAIN &
AIDEN JAMES
The Gabriel Files #1
Other Books by J.R. Rain & Aiden James
THE GABRIEL FILES
The Soul Taker
The Ghost Maker (coming soon)
NICK CAINE SERIES
Temple of the Jaguar
Treasure of the Deep
Pyramid of the Gods
The Soul Taker
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2019 by J.R. Rain & Aiden James
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Reading Sample: Banshee Moon
Reading Sample: The Witches of Denmark
About the Author: J.R. Rain
About the Author: Aiden James
The Soul Taker
Chapter One
It all started with the scent of brimstone.
Sharing a cup of coffee with my father on the front porch of our historic antebellum home, where we often enjoyed watching the sunrise, I was surprised that the acrid odor was what greeted my nostrils on this morning. It easily overpowered the wisteria and beds of irises blooming since the onset of April.
“Do you smell that, Dad?” I asked tentatively.
My father, Georghe Radu sniffed the air, shaking his head. “Smell what? Is Harry at it again?” He laughed, both at my expression and the allusion to our incorrigible neighbor, who once burned his entire lawn by spreading a dump-truck load of horse waste upon it.
“You don’t smell something... off?”
“Like what?”
I sighed. “Okay, I smell brimstone.”
“Brimstone? Hmm... perhaps it’s a spirit thing.” He paused to finish his coffee. “After all, you’re the only one in this household who can smell anything from that side of the veil. With what you mentioned in the kitchen about Sheriff McCain being on his way over here, maybe the dead are reaching out to you, Gabriel?”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Billy McCain had said something on the phone about a pair of murders in our quaint town of Denmark, Tennessee. Killings that had somehow been kept out of the media… but something told me that was about to change.
As we sat, I tried to hone in on the crimes of which the sheriff spoke, allowing the soft gurgle from our nearby fountain to distract from the acrid and cindery smell, long enough for my mind to wander. I often found myself drawn to the sculpture of the young girl thoughtfully holding a pitcher, from whence the water flowed. And not just drawn. Sometimes I would sit out here and meditate, allowing the gurgling sounds and the serene expression on the girl’s face to help me find life’s answers.
Not this time… not with the overwhelming essence of Hell also present.
Uneasy, I stood. “I think I’ll wait inside for Billy.” The sheriff had advised that he’d stop by within the hour. “Are you staying out here on the porch, Dad?”
“Nah… I’ve got a roof to get up to.” He shot me a playful wink, while pointing to the large red brick home next to our antebellum. The Beauregard place, built over a century ago, and by the son of the man who built the estate where we resided. “The view of Denmark is always best there first thing in the morning!”
“Well, be careful.”
“I always am.”
Another wink, and then he was gone… leaving me with his cup, and to await an anxious lawman’s arrival. A lawman who had already advised that he needed help solving two gruesome deaths likely dealing with what I specialize in…
Magic.
***
I should’ve expected that Billy McCain would arrive earlier than he had advised on the phone.
Fortunately, I happened to catch a glimpse of his police cruiser pulling up beside the Victorian iron gate that marks the front entrance to our property. After setting two empty coffee cups in the main sink, I returned to the foyer in time to catch the sheriff’s approach to the front door. I had forgotten that our town’s most notoriously eccentric police officer has an aversion to our bronze maiden pouring water from a pitcher. Silvia, my wife, once mentioned that it stems from the sheriff’s childhood and a ‘doll phobia’ he grew up with. At the moment, Billy was navigating the walkway to avoid the fountain like a tree monkey trying to slip past the bloated belly of an anaconda.
“Good morning, Billy,” I said upon opening the door.
“Good morning to you, Gabe.”
“You’re ten minutes earlier than what usually counts as early for you, I see.” I smiled impishly as he stepped into the foyer. “This must be important.”
“It is. When you see the files, you’ll understand.”
He held out two manila file folders with reports and what appeared to be photographs peering out along one folder’s edges. I couldn’t help but note that the sheriff’s normally cheerful blue eyes were clearly troubled. Well, two murders will do that to you.
“Sounds interesting. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Just in case someone happens to come in, I’d rather do this in complete privacy… if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” I shrugged, and led the way to the office located across the foyer from the dining room, and just to the left of the kitchen’s formal entrance.
One of the first rooms to get the ‘Georghe Radu’ makeover seven years ago, after we moved our family south to Denmark from Chicago, my father had outfitted this spacious room to serve as both a library and a posh study. Hand-crafted mahogany bookshelves that nearly grazed the room’s crown moldings, beneath the twelve-foot ceiling, featured my father’s prized collection of books, along with a few of my own treasured tomes from our time up north. A double French door led out to a wraparound porch, which helped lighten the room, since my father had also added a coffered ceiling of burled walnut. Dad’s most beloved centerpiece, though, is a genuine Louis XV antique desk, further adorned with a plush leather high-back chair on one side and a pair of smaller chairs of similar design and comfort on the other.
After closing the office door behind me, I motioned for Sheriff McCain to take one of the smaller chairs, and I moved around the desk to the high-back.
“Okay, Billy, tell me about the murders.”
Chapter Two
Sheriff McCain held off on taking a seat.
Instead, he laid the folders on top of the desk, sifting through the contents with meaty fingers that quickly separated the initial police reports, along with the photographs attendant to each crime.
br /> A portly man in his early forties, and who still possessed a strong build, McCain pushed his wire-framed glasses back from the edge of his nose once he seemed pleased with the files’ arrangement. He brushed his hands through his blonde crewcut while awaiting my initial response.
“And you say there is something a little odd about the crimes that speaks to the... supernatural?” I asked, studying his demeanor first.
His nervousness spoke volumes, but that could simply be the man’s penchant of looking for oddities. In the five years we had been friends, I had come to understand that Billy McCain was a very superstitious man. In truth, equally or more superstitious than the majority of warlocks and witches I’ve known down through the years.
“I’ll explain what it is in a moment,” he replied, eyeing me expectantly. “But first, I want you to keep in mind that I’m taking a sizable risk by bringing you into this so quickly. TBI’s on the way to see us, later today, after the second murder took place around two a.m. Today. But my hunch tells me they’re gonna miss the one key thing about these deaths that ties ‘em together.”
I knew the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, or TBI, was created decades ago after a heinous crime in the state led to an unbiased task force to assist local authorities in investigating major crimes. The two recent murders in our small town had apparently met their threshold. That also meant the sheriff’s every decision was about to be heavily scrutinized. TBI could be hardasses.
“Yes, you mentioned that on the phone, about the two crimes being related.”
I waited for him to acknowledge and continue, raising an eyebrow when he hesitated to go on.
“Yes, we do believe they’re related, or at least I do. But the ‘M.O.’ admittedly isn’t the same,” he said, finally. “Everything we’ve collected from the two crime scenes is, well, different, unless we missed a print or an item containing the perp’s DNA. TBI will be conducting their own investigation of the crime scenes once they get here, and, yeah, they might turn up something new. That said, we did come across an oddity present at both scenes.”
The sheriff knew that oddities were my specialty. Well, magical oddities.
Billy McCain removed a pair of photographs, one from each small pile grouped with each report. He held them out for me to take, and I accepted them, being mindful to not smudge the photos as I studied each one.
Last October, I helped the sheriff solve a fairly disturbing murder. Truth was, I had volunteered my services once I was certain the murder was magic-related. No, I don’t generally go around offering my services to the police... but I will if the crime is in my own backyard, and I can offer some insight into the murder. Which I had, and the killer had been caught. With a recent spate of oddities happening in and around town, the sheriff had asked if he could call on me again for help, should the need arise. I told him definitely. What I didn’t tell him was the presence of my family—and that of another feuding family—were likely the cause of the “oddities” showing up. No, we don’t go around murdering people. We’re actually pillars of the community. It’s just that... magic attracts magic.
Two photographs, two victims, both males. Both appeared homeless. In fact, I think I recognized them. I held a picture in each hand, my eyes darting between the two. One had a broken neck, and the other was missing his heart. Yes, his heart. Gruesome, certainly, but nothing I hadn’t seen in my very long lifetime. No, what got my attention were the symbols that were branded upon both victims’ bodies, just below the nape of their necks. Curiously, it was a symbol that represented an ancient name from my family’s homeland of Romania.
The symbol, or mark, consisted of a crude symbol: a primitive scythe with a serpent wrapped around its length. The name it symbolized was one I am quite familiar with: Sufletul, or ‘Soul Taker.’
Honestly, once I fully understood what we were dealing with, Billy taking the time to go through the details of each crime became a mere formality for me. I already knew that we were dealing with someone familiar with my vocation—be it another warlock, witch, or perhaps even a wizard or sorcerer. Yes, there are distinctions, and we shall surely define those differences in due time. For now, I had to consider that it was indeed someone quite familiar with the supernatural that had brutally taken the lives of these two human beings. And if not someone, then it could also be something. In this case, the ancient entity my people once feared worse than anything. The Sufletul or the stealer of human souls, usually in the dead of night.
As a warlock, I would’ve preferred a mortal perpetrator. But knowing that this situation could soon escalate from the tragic deaths of two homeless individuals to a situation much worse made the decision to aid Denmark, Tennessee’s finest an easy one.
Yeah, they were gonna need my help... and probably that of my entire magically gifted family.
“So, you recognize the symbol, Gabriel?”
“I do. It was good of you to come to me, Sheriff. This is not a symbol that the locals here would ever be familiar with—unless they possess an in-depth knowledge of arcane Romanian history.”
“And you do?”
I grinned. “I do, among other things.”
The sheriff proceeded to spread out nearly thirty photographs from the two crime scenes. Harley Storm was the name of the first victim, a homeless man estimated to be in his late fifties at the time of his murder. His complete identification—other than his name—was hindered by the fact he hadn’t carried any ID cards or Social Security information for years, and Mr. Storm was only known locally to the churches and humanitarian locales he frequented, such as the Salvation Army and Red Cross. Harley’s demise had initially been ruled an accidental death the previous Thursday, after he was found at the bottom of an outside stairwell at the local St. Peter’s Episcopal Church. At the time, the branding on his neck had gone mostly unnoticed.
But it was the second victim’s crime scene that had changed the perspective of Mr. Storm’s death. Zak Paschal was the second man’s name. A harmless vagrant, Zak had long ago befriended a Herschel County Sheriff’s Department deputy who would describe himself back then as ‘wet behind the ears’. This was, of course, none other than Billy McCain himself. The sheriff had forged a friendship with Mr. Paschal going on two decades now, and the circumstances surrounding Harley’s gruesome demise had shaken the sheriff to his very core.
“Does the symbol have a name that you’re familiar with, Gabe?”
“It does, but I can’t recall exactly what it is at the moment,” I lied, while thinking it might be best to not think long on the name—which in and of itself had a dark power. “The important thing for now is that I begin researching the symbol and seek to uncover why it’s being used here in Denmark. The key, as you’ve stated, is to get a handle on the killer and their motives, and then hopefully catch this miscreant before they strike again.”
An obvious assessment... and understatement. Anyone using this dark mark was far and beyond a miscreant. Stealing souls was nothing less than the Devil’s work.
“You can see from the report that Zak’s body was found not far from the ‘Welcome to Denmark’ sign—you know, the one with the frog wearing the cowboy hat.” Billy’s muted voice now carried an edge.
“I’m quite familiar with the frog sign.”
I couldn’t completely dim the smile that the silly sign inspires, but I wanted to come across as compassionate. This was a good friend to Sheriff McCain. Meanwhile, I sought to suppress images of how my kids had stepped up their protests about moving here as soon as the aforementioned frog came into view, upon our arrival to Denmark by car as a family nearly seven years ago.
“Well, if I can get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch who tore out Zak’s heart, I’ll be that sick bastard’s judge, jury, and executioner—right on the spot!”
I had no doubt that Billy was quite serious, and seeing the terrified expression frozen onto Mr. Paschal’s face was enough to inspire a rise of rage within me as well. Truth was, it was going to take more than a
sheriff’s rage and physical bullets to stop whoever had done this.
“We need to find whoever did this as quickly as possible,” I agreed, glancing again at the forty-eight-year-old homeless man’s compelling stare, hoping it would stir a vision from within… it didn’t. I shifted my gaze to the morgue photo of his tattooed neck. An enlargement of the original shot showed the snake’s intricate detail. Even the scythe bore incredible life-likeness to a famed painting of the Soul Taker that I had once seen in person, before the castle where it hung was burned to the ground in the Russo-Turkish War a century later.
Billy eyed me intently. “That’s a very unique symbol, Gabriel. Truth is, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “It’s a very dark symbol.”
The sheriff’s face lost some of its color. “Okay, that can’t be good. Care to elaborate?”
“Not at this time. Again, it will take some deeper research to know for certain.”
“Well, all right, then.” The sheriff stood from his chair, preparing to leave. “Keep me posted on your research, Gabe, and we’ll touch base in a day or two.”
“Don’t you need the files and pictures to take with you?”
“No, sir. I made those copies for you to keep—and I trust you to keep all of this confidential.”
“Yes, of course.”
After watching him return to his cruiser, I head back to the office. There, I sorted through the files and photographs again, arranging them on my desk. A macabre mosaic as one could imagine.
Something nagged at me, but I felt certain there’s nothing more to be gained from staring at the pictures.
I sat back in my leather chair, my hands folded over my stomach, and let my mind drift... a surefire way that I’ve discovered to help what’s bubbling in the subconscious to come to the surface.
As I did so, everything from Billy’s awareness of my family’s status as bonafide warlocks and witches, to the murders, to the ancient legends of the Sufletul passed before my eyes… followed only by more emptiness and uncertainty.