Page 16 of Deceiver (Soul Chasers #2)

Keagan

B eing alone at Wilder’s house doesn’t feel as scary as I thought it might, even after what happened last night.

I’ve spent my time roaming around his house.

He told me I could make myself comfortable, after all, and now I’ve settled in what I assume is his study, given that the walls are lined with shelves of books.

There’s a fireplace and a comfy couch next to it, which is inviting, but what’s more interesting is the wall of pictures behind his desk.

I walk over to it, checking out all the different looks and realizing that either Wilder has some mad editing skills, or he was telling the truth about how long he’s been alive.

There are pictures on the walls of him and others that seem to span many decades.

In one photo, he’s with a man. It’s sepia toned, but the man’s hair looks light, maybe blond.

The man is sitting in a chair with Wilder standing behind him, but they’re both dressed in really old-fashioned clothes, like something out of a period movie.

The picture right beside it is of Wilder and a pretty woman dressed in that same style of clothing. Finally, there’s a picture with the three of them, and I wonder if this is the Samuel and Lucy he was telling me about.

There are other pictures too. One of Wilder standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. It’s in black and white, and he’s wearing clothes that, again, seem like something out of a Jane Austen movie. He looks dapper and excited, with a smile on his face that I’m sure doesn’t get much use these days.

In other pictures, I see him wearing clothing from various eras, and it feels like I’m looking at a museum display of fashion through the decades.

There’s even one of him on a beach wearing some getup that looks like a tank top and long shorts all put together, and he’s got a handlebar mustache.

My favorite, though, is when I notice the pictures of him that I would assume are from the 1930s or 40s.

He looks like an Irish mobster from the Mafia movies I like to watch from that time period, like he could have been running around with Bugsy Siegel, Al Capone, or Lucky Luciano.

He’s wearing a really nice suit, his hair slicked back in kind of a pompadour, and he appears to be standing in front of a hotel, but it’s not one I recognize. Maybe he’s in Vegas. Hard to say with the limited view of the background.

I keep looking through the photos on the wall until I stumble across one of him standing next to a beautiful woman.

She’s wearing an elaborate costume, and I remember him telling me about the stage actress he loved once upon a time.

She has a Marilyn Monroe aura about her, but in a less over-the-top way.

There are dozens of pictures lining the walls of Wilder in various places in his life, doing different things with different people, sightseeing and visiting landmarks.

The things he must have seen in his long life.

I can’t even imagine it, and it’s got to be lonely sometimes, but maybe he’s found a way to deal with it.

It’s not something I can understand, given my own relationship with mortality.

He’s an interesting guy, and more talkative than I thought he might be. I have so many more questions that I’d love to ask him. Learning about him is a nice distraction from what’s going on with me.

I leave his office and continue wandering around the house, admiring the antiques and the different pieces of furniture, but when I turn around again to head back to the kitchen to look for a snack, my breath catches in my throat as I’m faced with a glowing being hovering in front of me, blocking the entrance to the hallway.

“What are you?”

It doesn’t answer me. Not that I expected it to, since it doesn’t look like a person. I can’t explain exactly what it does look like—a blob, maybe, but a glowing blob. I definitely have a sense of unease around it.

Maybe I should call Wilder before something goes wrong, but even as I reach for my phone in my back pocket, my chest tightens and my stomach sours.

The next thing I know, there’s a sharp pain in my chest.

Oh no. Fuck. What’s happening? Is this thing doing something to me?

I crumple to the floor on my knees, staring at the thing in front of me, willing it to go away.

I’m surprised when it actually starts to fade, but it’s replaced by something else, something far less pleasant.

It’s an image of me running through a field, but I don’t get the sense that I’m being chased.

Rather, I’m the one doing the chasing.

Ahead of me, I hear the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing, and when I look down, I’m holding a dagger in my hand.

I shake my hand out, trying to drop the dagger, but I’m still locked in this vision, running, chasing, with this knife in my hand.

What’s going on?

I’m aware enough that I’m trying to resist the vision, but I can’t, and then a voice speaks to me, “You have to do what you have to do, Keagan. This man stole from you. He stole your whole future. The one you could have had.”

“What man? What future? Who is that talking?”

“There was so much money, but he stole it.”

“Money?” I shake my head. “Who is this?”

“When you find him, you know what you need to do. Make him tell you where the money is. Make him tell you.”

I try to close my eyes, but it feels impossible.

My legs ache from the running, even though I’m vaguely aware that I’m still safely inside Wilder’s home.

But the more I run, the more real it feels.

My breathing is harsh.

My legs hurt.

My hand cramps from holding on to the dagger so tightly.

I turn a corner, and there the man is, cowering against a brick wall.

“I didn’t mean it, man. I didn’t mean to take it,” the man says. “I can’t give it back right now, but, but give me a little time and I’ll make it up. I’ll get the money back to you.”

I don’t know what to say, and I don’t recognize this man. I’ve never seen him before, but the rage flowing through me right now is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

I don’t like it.

“Ask him where the money is, Keagan,” the voice in my head says. “Ask him.”

“Where is the money?”

“Gone,” the man says. “Gone, but I’ll make more. I’ll get it back. The investment was a bad one, but I have a new lead, and I can get the money back. Just, please don’t hurt me, man. Please don’t hurt me.”

I want to tell him that I don’t plan to hurt him, but the words get caught in my throat. Instead, I raise the dagger over my head, horrified by my own actions.

No, I don’t want to do this.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to make this weird vision stop.

No, please, I don’t want to hurt him.

“Please, don’t kill me, man. I can’t get the money back if you kill me.”

The man is cowering, trembling, begging me for his life.

But as my hand comes down, slashing into his chest, I’m gripped by rage, even hate, and I keep chopping and chopping and chopping until I’m covered in blood and the man’s screams fall silent.

I let out a bellow as I drop to the ground, and when I open my eyes, I’m safely in Wilder’s house, lying on his living room floor.

I pull myself into a sitting position and start to rock, looking for comfort.

What the hell was that?

It felt so real.

I look down at my hands, finding them unblemished, unharmed, no blood anywhere.

Of course not.

It wasn’t real, but it felt real.

So damn real.

I don’t know what to think about that, and now I’m too scared to move, so I just sit there on the floor waiting for Wilder to come back. When I hear the side door open, a sense of relief settles over me.

He’s back, and I’m not alone anymore.

In mere seconds, he’s next to me, kneeling down beside me and wrapping his arms around me.

“Keagan, what happened? I’m here. Talk to me.”

Shamelessly, I throw my arms around him and bury my face in the crook of his neck.

“It was awful.”

“What happened? Were you attacked again?”

I shake my head, clinging to his strong shoulders. “No, not exactly.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wilder pulls back, holding me by the shoulders as he looks me up and down. “You look okay.”

“I—It was so real. It was like I was there and it was really happening, and I, oh god, I killed him, and he was begging me, and I didn’t care. I did it anyway.”

“Whoa. Slow down. Who did you kill?”

“This man, he was telling me about the money, and I was chasing him, and this voice kept telling me to find out where the money is.”

“Find out where the money is,” Wilder repeats. “Any idea what money?”

“No. I asked the man where the money was, and he said he didn’t have it, but he would get it back. He was begging me, Wilder. Begging me not to kill him, but I did it anyway. I lifted the knife and I did it. I killed him. I stabbed him to death. Oh my god.”

“Breathe, breathe, breathe.” Wilder brushes my hair from my forehead. “Did you have a dream?”

“No, I wasn’t dreaming. I was standing right here.

It was like…” I shrug. “Like I went somewhere else, and I could see everything. I could smell the air around me, and I was running through a field chasing this man who apparently owes somebody money, but it felt like it was me he owed the money to. I felt the anger, and I felt this desire to make him beg me.” My voice trembles as I try to explain the situation.

“I’m not a violent person, Wilder. I don’t know why I felt that way.

I would never hurt somebody. I’ve never even been in a fist fight. ”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t real. You were here the whole time.”

“I know, I know, but it felt real. It freaked me out. It was like something took over me.”

“Do you think it was the spirit that used to be your dad?”

“No, his voice was different. It wasn’t like his voice at all. It was deeper, but softer, like there was anger there, but contained. It wasn’t my dad. I’ve heard his voice. It wasn’t him. It was something else. Something wicked.”

“Fuck,” Wilder mumbles, rubbing my back. “You’re okay. Calliope is on her way over.

We’re going to give you some protection.”

“What kind of protection?”

“Spiritual protection, to try and stop these entities from getting to you. I can only assume that’s what caused this vision you had.”

Still trembling, I can’t bring myself to let go of his shoulders.

“I’m so fucking freaked out, Wilder.”

“I know. I’m really sorry this is happening to you, but I’m not gonna leave until you’re safe, okay? I’m not going to leave until this is over. All of it.”

I nod, hearing the sincerity in his voice and believing it. “Okay.”

“Is there anything else that happened that you think is important?”

“I, um.” I rub my forehead, trying to sort through my thoughts. “The voice told me that it was the guy’s fault. He said my future was taken away from me, but I’ve never seen this man before, the man I hurt. I’ve never seen him. I don’t know him.”

“And the voice said he took your future from you?”

“Yeah, or, like, it was his fault that I didn’t have it anymore, but it wasn’t clear what it was talking about.”

“Okay, let’s get you off the floor and get you some water.”

“Will that help?”

“Maybe. Worth a try.”

“Just, uh, don’t leave me again. I can’t do this by myself.”

Wilder nods, a deep crease in his forehead. “I won’t leave again. When Calliope gets here, we’ll tell her about this situation. It sounds like there’s some way that they’re getting to your subconscious, which is much harder to combat.”

“Great. Is this my fault again for using the spirit board?”

“Let’s not worry about whose fault it is or how it happened right now. Let’s focus on how to make it stop. There’ll be plenty of time to find the source of it later.”

“Okay.”

Wilder helps me to my feet and stands with his hands on my shoulders. “You’re gonna be okay, Keagan. You’re gonna be fine. I know this is scary, but I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“I believe you.”

I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. It takes him a second, but then I feel his hands on my back, rubbing up and down, comforting me.

This man is all I’ve got right now. He’s the only thing standing between me and whatever the hell is happening. I hope everything he’s told me is true, and he really does know how to help me.

Otherwise, I’m not sure what’s gonna happen to me.