From the Ashes: A Psychic Visions Novel

by Dale Mayer

  “Did we do it?” She released her hold on Grayse and Rowan, took several trembling steps backward, rotating her neck, shaking out her arms, flicking away remnants of energy, looking at Grayse and Rowan. “How do I look? Is it all gone?”

  Grayse walked around her, then looked at Rowan. “You look too.”

  Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know what I just saw, but I don’t see anything odd about you now. It all swirled around and went into the box …”

  “What about the icy-blue energy?” she whispered. “Is it still attached to me?” She already knew it wasn’t. She already knew it was in the box but needed confirmation. “I think it’s all in there,” she said. “It feels like it’s all in there.”

  Grayse placed a hand on her shoulder, bowed his head and closed his eyes. A moment later, he lifted his hand and smiled at her. “You did it,” he said. “You pulled the energy from your system, and it’s all in the box.”

  She smiled. “The question is now, what do we do with the box?”

  Rowan stared at it with loathing. “I highly suggest we throw it in the lava, like you intended.”

  She looked up at him. “What about that idea of keeping it in a safe forever?”

  He shook his head. “Hell no,” he said. “We dispose of it forever. The damage they’ve done …” He shook his head. “So, did we save that little girl too?”

  “I’d say so, yes,” Grayse muttered. He took a slow and deep breath. “I have a good idea who she was.”

  Both Rowan and Phoenix turned to stare at him.

  “Your child,” he said. “A daughter. I just saw her now when I checked Phoenix’s energy.”

  Phoenix’s gaze opened wide, and she spun to stare at Rowan.

  He blinked, and a gentle smile lit up his face. “Are you sure?” he asked Grayse.

  “Yeah,” Grayse said with a grin. “Something good to come from this.”

  “I can sense her,” Phoenix whispered. “Oh my …”

  And just like that, she threw her arms around Rowan’s neck and hugged him tight. He picked her up and twirled her around.

  When Grayse cleared his throat, Rowan put her back on her feet.

  “I get that we have something worth celebrating,” Grayse said, “but it’s a bit unseemly if anyone sees us now.” He nodded to Manru’s body, collapsed on the concrete at their feet.

  “Oh, Rowan.” Phoenix looked down at his grandmother. “You need to get the hospital staff out here.”

  He nodded and said, “That’s also my father’s gun.”

  “You might want to consider the fact this makes his case attempted murder, not a suicide,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her with understanding. “Right, and we have a few other cases we probably need to look at too.”

  “There’s time for that. Can’t you already feel a change in the energy, in the air? It’s different now, more peaceful.”

  “It will be.” Rowan looked at Grayse. “You want to come with us to toss the box in the lava?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But let’s deal with this first.”

  Rowan pulled out his phone and called inside the hospital. Within minutes, the place was swarming with medical personnel. Then he called for several of his fellow officers to come. His grandmother was pronounced dead, but they had to wait to be questioned, and finally, hours later, they were in his vehicle and heading to the same place where Haro had gone over the edge of the cliff into the Burning Fires.

  They all exited the vehicle.

  Rowan turned to Phoenix and said, “This isn’t the same material anymore. It’s whole now, the box containing all the pieces you had, including your father’s letter, given to you in childhood. What do you think will be required to get all that in the lava?”

  She looked at it, smiled, lifted her arm high in the air, and, without further ado, flung it long and wide at the center of the lava, using her psychic energy to carry it to the center of the molten stream. Slowly, as the lava bubbled, the box sank, until one final air bubble popped from the surface, and it disappeared completely from sight.

  Rowan and Grayse gasped at her long throw as they watched it sink from sight.

  She turned to look at both men and smiled. “I was reborn from the fire once and am now reborn a second time as my history is burned in the fire. The past is now in the past. For the first time I can relate to my name. My future lies before me.” She slid her hand across her belly. “A future I never thought to have. Talk about a new beginning.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Rowan said, wrapping his arms around her neck and tucking her in nice and close. “For both of us. You’ll have to marry me now.”

  “Ha,” she said with a big grin on her face. “Good thing we had already agreed on that point.”

  Grayse said, “Sounds like a whole new beginning for a lot of people, especially this town.” He looked at the two of them. “You have your work cut out for you though.”

  Phoenix smiled and said, “You know something? That’s okay. For the first time, I feel like maybe I can rise to the challenge.”

  And she laughed. Life had never felt better.

  This concludes Book 16 of Psychic Visions: From the Ashes.

  Read the first Chapter of Stroke of Death: Psychic Visions, Book 17

  Stroke of Death

  Cayce’s art is well-known and respected among her peers, and, as such, has spawned forgers, copycats … and enemies. But when her favorite model and best friend is murdered—the masterpiece painted on her skin cut off her body—Cayce knows she’s up against a collector of a very different sort.

  Detective Richard Henderson doesn’t know much about art, but he knows what he likes. Of all the art mixed up in this case, it is the artist, Cayce, who fascinates him the most. While he understands her work contains an element of something extraordinary, he just doesn’t know what that is exactly or how she embodies it in her creative works of art.

  But, when other models show up dead, with more souvenirs taken from their bodies, both the artist and the detective realize much more is involved in this than just Cayce’s art … It’s all about Cayce’s soul.

  Stroke of Death: Psychic Visions (Book #17)

  Chapter 1

  Cayce didn’t want to rush her work today. She didn’t want to rush any day but definitely not today. This was the fifth day that she had put into this commissioned art piece, and today was all about incorporating the live model into Cayce’s static artwork. Cayce had finished the backdrop. Today was all about getting the presentation of the model just perfect, merging with Cayce’s background art.

  However, the perfect model that the set director wanted was the worst model for the job. And yet Cayce had no logical way to explain that. Cayce had only found out about the change in the model yesterday. She’d been putting the final touches on the backdrop, when the company brought in the new model to show her. Cayce’s normal approach was not to let others dictate her models to her, not even the client who had commissioned Cayce’s artwork. But the client’s representatives had pulled a fast one on Cayce at the very last moment.

  To top off that insult, Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the new model, Naomi. Something about the sly curl to her lips and that look in her eyes all said she knew exactly what the world wanted, and she was prepared to give it up—for a price.

  But Cayce was a professional. She did what she needed to do. Today was no exception. Besides, the sooner she was done, the sooner she could move on. She walked from her vehicle to the art installation, putting down her large cases and turning to study the work she’d completed the night before. Finally, after a few moments, she stepped back and nodded. “It looks good.”

  “Looks darn good.”

  At the sound of footsteps she turned to see her replacement model saunter in, dressed in a bikini and not much else. Cayce nodded in acknowledgment of Naomi’s comment, then said, “Okay, so right back to the same position we set up last night,” she said, motioni
ng at the wall—Cayce’s painting—where the model herself would disappear into the actual painting background.

  “And a good morning to you too,” Naomi said in a snide voice.

  Cayce shrugged it off. She was short on time as it was. She couldn’t afford to waste more time by slinging words with Naomi when Cayce needed to be slinging paint. It was hard to be creative if she had adverse feelings for the whole scenario. She wished she had her regular model because Elena would have been absolutely perfect for this job.

  Cayce had worked with Elena just two days ago on another art show, highlighting different masterpieces, and it had worked out absolutely stunningly, but that had been for a fancy house party, where Elena had been the artsy centerpiece of the ballroom. She had done a phenomenal job, and, when Cayce had told her best model to go home and to rest, Elena had laughed at her and said, “Now that I’m off duty, I want to enjoy the party and to mingle with the guests.” She had given Cayce a gentle hug and had turned and walked away.

  Elena’s happy energy was so very different than Naomi’s critical scowl, as Cayce tried to sort out what she needed to do next, other than deflecting Naomi’s negative energy.

  “You can start anytime,” Naomi said in a bored voice. “At this rate we’ll be here all day.”

  “I won’t be,” Cayce said. She bent down, opened up her cases, brought out her palettes and her paints, mixing the first color she wanted. When she was ready, she pulled on the energies around her, looking for that creative light, that rainbow, which she wrapped around her, almost like a blanket of good luck, spreading out into all the different colors. She was a firm believer in the colors of sound and the colors of nature.

  When she reached for a certain color, she always called out to Mother Nature to help Cayce make a true representation.

  Finally she stood up with her palette and walked over to Naomi and got to work. Cayce started with Naomi’s left shoulder and arm, working down her elbow, Cayce’s strokes sure, fast and accurate.

  Naomi watched her in surprise. “Wow, when you get going, you get going.”

  Cayce didn’t say a word; what could she say? It was beyond her to talk at this point because all the possible colors of the spectrum surged through her heart, through her mind, wrapping around her body and soul. She needed the same energy to wrap around Naomi, to help her model attract and pull in and blend with the same colors, the same energy. Only there was no blending with Naomi. Her energy was impatient, irritated—edgy.

  Yet Cayce’s work entailed a magical element, and she firmly believed it was due to the Mother Nature energy that she utilized. When the magic happened naturally, it was great, easy, wonderful. Sometimes Cayce could also make it happen, and Cayce was a pro at that. Which would desperately be needed here with Naomi.

  Cayce worked incessantly for two hours, before she finally took a step back. She had the preliminary painting on the top half of Naomi, the background blending beautifully into the foreground. Although Cayce still had the other layers to work on, Naomi’s hair was pulled back into a tight braid down her back, and Cayce had to blend Naomi’s face and that hairline yet. She walked closer to the model. “Do you need a bathroom break or water?”

  Naomi nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good.” She walked toward the hallway, disappearing around a corner.

  Cayce took a deep breath, let it out, gently twisting and stretching her spine and her neck. When she heard hard footsteps behind her, she stiffened. She hated on-site visitors, approved or not, when she worked. She just wished they’d wait to see the finished piece at the opening event. Not to mention that the energy preceding her visitor had a dark, disruptive influence attached. She pulled in her aura, then turned to face down the coming threat.

  When she saw a man in a suit walking toward her, her eyes opened wide. His chiseled face was his most striking feature—but a model in a suit seemed incongruous here. “May I help you?” She studied his aura, seeing it snugged tightly against his body. A barely visible white line of energy surrounded him. Except it resonated with anger, … lots of anger. Yet controlled. She raised her eyebrows ever-so-slowly. “What’s the matter?”

  “Why would you think anything is wrong?” he asked in a tight, hard voice.

  Although he might not be aware of what his aura was doing, nevertheless he didn’t want her aware of it either. Because now his energy had thinned even more. “Just that you look angry,” she said. She waved her hand at the installation. “I’m kind of busy.”

  “You are Cayce Cormont?” At her nod, he continued. “And you worked with Elena Campbell?”

  “Yes, all the time. We did a piece together two nights ago,” she said, her face softening at the reminder. “She’s a really good friend of mine.”

  Just then Naomi returned, instantly shifting the energy in the room. She took her position against the backdrop wall as she eyed the new arrival with a pretty smile on her face. “Oh, perfect. Somebody to come and watch me.” And she bounced her bare boobs a little bit.

  It was all Cayce could do to hold back her sigh of frustration.

  The man looked at her, then looked at Naomi. “So do you know Elena too?”

  “Sure,” Naomi said. “Models in this business usually know each other. She’s pretty decent. I’m better.” She waved her hand at her bikini-clad body. “That’s why I’m here, and she’s not,” she said smugly. “I’m Naomi Hartlet.”

  The stranger’s gaze narrowed.

  On the side, biting back her caustic response, Cayce watched Naomi’s energy. The deceptive fluffy lights flitting off in a million different directions hid something dark inside, but everybody had something dark inside. Because Cayce had taken an instant dislike to the woman, Cayce had put up barriers, so she wouldn’t have to deal with Naomi’s energy on a firsthand basis, but that also made the painting of Naomi go a bit slower.

  While Naomi seemed to think that Cayce was fast and on target, today wasn’t really going as smoothly or as timely or as well as Cayce would have liked.

  She turned to the stranger. “You haven’t identified yourself,” she said in a cool tone. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m Detective Richard Henderson,” he said, pulling out a badge.

  She frowned, reading the name on the badge. “What do the police want here?”

  “Doesn’t matter what they want,” Naomi said with a throaty laugh. “They can send all their hunky detectives my way.”

  Naomi’s words gave Cayce everything she needed to know, without even turning toward Naomi to see the same darkness oozing from her pores. Nerves. Fear. Uncertainty. Cayce studied her model for a long moment, then faced the detective, noting no change in his energy. He was completely unfazed by Naomi. Neither was he attracted to the mostly naked woman. Interesting …“Detective, why are you here?”

  “Because we found your friend,” he said, with added emphasis on that last word.

  “Which friend?” she asked, not understanding where he was coming from. “What do you mean, found?”

  “Elena Campbell,” he said. “Remember her?”

  Frustrated now, she gave a quick nod. “I already told you that she’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Her body was found in a dumpster bin yesterday morning.” His gaze was hard. … And angry. “What do you know about that?”

  Cayce took the blow almost viscerally. Her body bowed against the pain. “Are you serious?” she gasped out. “Oh, my God.” She sank to the floor.

  Her mind was completely overwhelmed as shards of pain splintered through her. Was that why the last two days had been so rough? She’d fought headaches and nausea, and, when a darkness had enveloped her, she’d really wondered what was going on. When she found out Elena had been replaced in this installation, Cayce hadn’t been happy—as in seriously not happy—and had figured the ugly energy was due to that. She liked to choose her own models. Not deal with ones sleeping their way to the top. Naomi hadn’t fit the bill yesterday. She hadn’t fit the bill today. Cayce’s mo
dels had to have that extra something.

  Naomi didn’t have it.

  The detective squatted in front of her. “Breathe.”

  She drew in a deep breath, her gaze wide and painful as she stared at him. “How? When?”

  “She had already been dead for several hours,” he said softly, as he studied her. “And her throat was cut.”

  The shocks just kept reverberating. Her body shook involuntarily. Then she added her own headshake. “Oh, my God, dear God, no.” She continuously shook her head, her lips firmed into a straight line, her eyes filling with tears. “Dear God,” she whispered again, turning to the detective. “Elena was special. Why would anybody want to hurt her?”

  “You body painted her, correct?”

  She nodded, her gaze locked on his, searching for anything to say, but her throat had closed, her heart shutting down at the terrible horrors filling her mind’s eye.

  “And what did you paint on her that night?”

  She stared up at him, and sadly she whispered, “A masterpiece. I painted her into a masterpiece.”

  “Well, guess what?” he said, his voice hardening. “A collector found something else to collect. Her skin.”

  At his last words, her stomach revolted, and she vomited all over the floor.

  In her heart of hearts she knew the murderer hadn’t just collected a masterpiece of art. Something was so very special about Elena. Her energy was pure gold.

  When her killer took her life, her painted skin, he’d also taken a part of Elena’s soul.

  Find Book 17 here!

  To find out more visit Dale Mayer’s website.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading From the Ashes: Psychic Visions, Book 16! If you enjoyed the book, please take a moment and leave a short review here.

  Dear reader,

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