by Nikki Sex
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I rub my hand down his back, fruitlessly attempting to comfort him, and myself.
In its dark heart, the creature longs to feed on me.
Chapter 39.
Christmas comes and goes—it’s a fantastic affair in the Magic Lands. Overall, nine weeks pass without incident. No sudden mass animal suicides, no dreams that include an invisible starving entity.
I do occasionally feel pangs of the unknown creature’s hunger, though. Sometimes I also see faces of men, women and children I’ve never met—yet somehow, I know them. I’m aware of their taste, their smell, their thoughts.
Then I wake up feeling like I’d visited someone else’s memories, instead of a vivid dream. Go figure.
Meanwhile, no other shifter has experienced issues while passing through the witch’s ward. It seems that one instance was the first and only time anyone felt something within the barrier. Once more, Stafford and I travel back and forth with impunity—and alacrity.
The situation with Silver has improved. While she hasn’t made friends, she isn’t making enemies. The woman’s blood-bound to do me no harm, losing her shit would be harmful. See how clever I am?
So far so good.
Within their artificial wombs, our babies thrive. I can’t tell for sure, but I think one is a boy, one a girl. My inner wolf already feels motherly. My demon is fascinated by new life, or perhaps by their unusual magic. I can taste the difference in our children’s power, too.
What exactly are they?
I’ve already explained to Stafford how Leonidas saved my life by sharing his magical essence. Consequently, I was full of vampire blood the day my eggs were harvested. Will vamp magic affect my eggs?
I’ve got an inner wolf, an inner demon, and I’m half fae. All this begs the question, how will our children turn out? Should I be worried?
I don’t care if they’re a hybrid mixture of everything, as long as they’re healthy. It makes no difference to me if they come into the world as pure human, fae, vampire (unlikely) or wolf. No matter what they are, I’ll love them with all that I am.
I’m going to be a mommy!
At work, it seems I’m a celebrity. After Annabelle Symmes told me where to find the bodies buried by a serial killer, everyone wants to pay big bucks for my time. Consequently, my salary has tripled, but that’s the least of the changes.
My boss affectionately calls me Janney, he’ll do anything I want. Mr. MacLeod’s in his seventies, but he looks younger every day. Thanks to me and Leonidas, the head honcho of MacLeod’s International, is an amalgamation of demon and vampire power. His invisible wings are distinctly blue—not an ounce of black.
I’m not sure what he is, or what he’s becoming.
Sheepish about my impulsive attempt to heal his aging heart, I try to avoid him.
With our own space at the top floor, my colleagues and I have literally moved up in MacLeod’s International. The view is amazing, the snow shines so beautifully on Grouse Mountain. Like the senior executives, now we can watch snowboarders glide down the slopes.
Carlota Russo, a shared company secretary, takes my calls, and combs through potential clients, while rejecting the riff-raff. I’ve known her since I started work at MacLeod’s. A well-dressed woman, on the wrong side of forty, she loves boasting to one and all she’s “close friends with a medium.” Intrusive, boisterous, and chummy with everyone, she’s worn several different hats at MacLeod’s from Office Manager and Personal Assistant, to Insurance Adjuster.
“Close friends” is a stretch, but with my quiet persona, it was easy to let her overbearing personality sweep me away. I find her non-stop crazy stories entertaining, amusing, and inexplicably relaxing.
Today Carlota left me a memo asking to get together for coffee—she wants to talk. Last year I attended her wedding (her forth), but drew the line on being a member of her wedding party. With her, she’ll chat about work stuff (looking for greener pastures) or relationship stuff (looking for greener pastures).
Carlota received a huge pay raise for her extra duty, while Danvers and Abruzzo have doubled their salaries. Their jobs? While still detectives in Missing Persons, they do full background searches on my customers. They also sit outside my interview room, assisting me as needed, and keeping me safe from crazies.
It’s a hoot!
I have my own space, decorated exactly as I like, thank you very much. Calm white walls, tan leather sofas placed across from each other, pale wood flooring, and a hand-woven blue, white, rust and daffodil-yellow Guatemalan rug. The “Modern Indoor Plant Hire” people have provided my inner beast an indoor jungle. Add floods of sunlight from the full-length windows, a few amethyst crystals, a comfortable bed for Wonder Dog—and it’s perfect.
A large, trim, black man, Abruzzo strides through my open door. Meeting my gaze, he grins. “Looking good, Jan.” He’s pleased with my new, trendy appearance.
Other than when working as a physician and pretending to be a man, I’ve always dressed modest and mousy. Today, I’m wearing dark slacks and a red jacket—a professional look that’s not unusual. The difference is cost, quality, make-up, and my air of confidence.
I don’t have to be a man, or act like a shy young woman. No more hiding. The ghost whisperer has come up in the world. I’m free to be me.
I smile back at him from my sofa. “Thanks.”
“Your ten o’clock is here, I’ve taken their coats. Pohlmann brought his ex-mother-in-law, and ex-sister-in-law. The sister’s not happy, she’s snarling like a cat with a twisted tail. Good luck with that. You ready?”
“Sure, send them in.”
I stand to warmly greet my guests.
Earlier, Danvers gave me an in-depth written review of my client, Mr. Harry Pohlmann. Pohlmann is a common South African surname, which makes sense as his father was born there. Harry’s mom is American, Harry grew up in the States.
Today, he flew here from his home in Portland, Oregon. Now I’m famous, we get a lot of international customers.
Thirty-three years old, Pohlmann is part owner of a chemical manufacturing business. His first wife, Stacy, was a registered nurse. She was killed in an apparent robbery gone wrong six years ago, while walking to her car after an evening shift. Stacy’s purse and jewelry had been stolen, her murderer never found.
Two years after her death, Pohlmann remarried. He and his new wife, Janice, have two children—a girl age two, and a boy, age four.
Anticipation curls inside me, while my demon purrs with interest. We both love a good metaphysical mystery. Will Stacy be here in ghost form? Can we help her cross over? Who killed her and why?
The sister-in-law, true to Abruzzo’s observation, storms inside like a maddened tornado. My inner demon perks up, he likes anger—it’s a strong emotion. Dressed in a red turtleneck, tight jeans, and a short leather jacket, her stunning dark eyes flash with fury. Maybe five-six, with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, her heritage could be Middle Eastern, Indian, or Mexican.
Embarrassed and concerned—her mother steps through the door second, hot on the younger woman’s trail. Mom is dressed in a feminine, elegant, sky-blue suit, with a single string of pearls. Gray hair, alert, pale blue eyes, she looks to be in her mid-sixties.
An average-sized man, Mr. Pohlmann arrives last. With the long slim build of a cyclist, he’s fit and trim, with straight white teeth, and curly brown hair. Three wonderfully normal humans, none of them project a psychic aura.
“Right, let’s get this BS over with,” the daughter rudely snaps, her eyes drilling into me.
“Elana, remember your manners!” her mother admonishes.
“I can’t believe we’re here! Stacy’s dead and buried, so you two spend your money on a con artist? I can’t believe we’re visiting a “psychic.” What’s next? Witch doctors and cutting the heads off chickens?”
“Elana,” Mr. Pohlmann says half-heartedly.
Glaring at me, her fists clench. “I don’t have to be nic
e to anyone taking advantage of our family tragedy. They’re the worst sort of scum.”
I face her in a careful, non-patronizing manner. “MacLeod’s International has a money-back guarantee,” I comment mildly. “If I don’t meet your expectations, you’re entitled to a refund.”
“You see?” Mom says.
Elana snorts her disbelief.
With an inner demon on board, I don’t have the luxury of snapping back, or even getting in a snide comment. Strong emotion will just get him started. How have I managed to avoid the sin of wrath? Easy, really. I look at the angry, rude young woman before me.
I’m not seeing her at her best.
This is Elana, but not ALL of her. Her sister, Stacy, was brutally murdered. Elana’s probably a nice person, but she’s currently stripped of good manners through heartbreak.
Her mother turns to me. “Don’t mind Elana. We all respond to grief in different ways.”
“That’s true,” I agree.
The man gives up and ignores his sister-in-law’s bad manners. He’s not in denial—I just think he’s used to it. “Ms. St. John?” He sends me an engaging smile. “I’m Harry Pohlmann. Please call me Harry.”
“Yes, how do you do? I’m Janice.”
“Janice. Yes.” He tilts his head, gives me glance. “That’s also my wife’s name.”
The moment we shake hands, an uncomfortable prickle of magic crawls up my spine like a swarm of stinging bees. I release Harry’s palm, but the itch remains. Pohlmann doesn’t come across as a sorcerer, yet there’s enchantment here. Traces of power left there by an unhappy ghost, perhaps?”
“This is Stacy’s mother, Mrs. Beecham.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, still wondering about unpleasant needles running down my back.
With warm, dry fingers, Mrs. Beecham grips my hand. “Please, call me Joan. I showed Harry the newspaper article about your assistance with the police in catching that horrible serial killer. We don’t know if you can help with my daughter, but we both felt we had to try.”
“You had to?” I ask tentatively, curious about her wording.
“Yes. Once we knew of your abilities, there was simply no other choice.”
“Ah, I see,” I reply distractedly, gesturing to the couches.
Well crap. I fear they’ve brought me a poltergeist. A strong one.
Chapter 40.
Mrs. Beecham gestures toward the younger woman. “This is Stacy’s sister, my daughter, Elana.
Alrighty then.
If looks could kill and I wasn’t immortal, I’d be dead. I school my features to remain neutral, as I look at her. I expect smoke to come from her ears, or maybe her head will explode by the force and magnitude of her fury.
“Hello.” Amused by her pissed off glower, I struggle not to laugh. Returning my gaze to her mother, I mildly say, “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Stacy dearest, could be a poltergeist—a powerful form of ghost, capable of physical disturbance and magical compulsion. I’ve run afoul of the suckers before. They are no laughing matter.
I once met an unhappy, desperate fellow. He was being terrorized by the furious, vengeful ghost of a guy he’d killed. It’s a long, sad story, but I negotiated terms with the poltergeist to leave him alone. The spirit passed on the moment his killer gave all his money, along with the dead man’s wedding ring, to the victim’s widowed wife.
The case ended on a pleasantly karmic note, but such problems are not always so clear cut. Humans are vulnerable to petty jealousies, greed, all the basic sins. Unfortunately, so are their ghosts. Right or wrong, there’s no guessing what a spiteful spirit may do.
Thrown off balance, and apprehensive of this concealed ghost, I buy some time with awkward small talk while toying with a large, amethyst crystal.
I wish Toby were here, he’s a great ice-breaker and customer distraction. Unfortunately, he’s with Hope today. They plan to stay the night with Leonidas. Hope intends to visit Millicent—and perhaps continue her non-budding romance with John.
Harry catches my gaze, leans toward me on the couch. “Can you see Stacy?” he asks eagerly.
His hopeful, trusting comment makes Elana grumble obscenities under her breath.
“Not yet,” I reply, “but I feel her. Do you ever feel her presence?”
“What a stupid question!” Elana snarls. Refusing to sit, she paces the room in a swirl of delicious angry energy. I think my demon’s in love with this fiery whirlwind. Meanwhile, her mother and ex-brother-in-law, apparently accustomed to her behavior, ignore Elana’s emotional outburst.
“Yes,” Joan says. “We’ve all felt her presence.”
“How does she seem to you?”
Frown lines furrow in Harry’s forehead. “Angry.”
“I fear she won’t rest until her killer is found,” her mother agrees. “Do you want to see her picture?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll see her when I see her.” I scan the room, but there’s still no evidence of the ghost I sense so strongly. “Tell me about Stacy. It may help.”
Stacy’s mom raises her hands, lowers them. She glances at her ex-son-in-law, sends him a sympathetic smile.
“Stacy and I met in college,” Mr. Pohlmann begins earnestly. “We attended the same Sociology class—she was studying nursing. I took business, but also chose a couple of nursing subjects.” He laughs. “I wanted to meet girls.”
I snort a teasing laugh. “Typical man.”
“Guilty as charged.” I sense his sudden strong interest as he meets my gaze. “Have you ever been in love?”
I nod, feeling a wash of heat at the thought of Stafford. “I’m very much in love, right now.”
Harry’s hazel eyes soften. “Then you understand, and you’re lucky. I’d experienced lust before Stacy, of course—but this was different. She was different—we just connected. We married against our parents’ wishes, both families wanted us to wait, but you know,” he smiles at his ex-mother-in-law, “we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”
Harry’s ex-mother-in-law places her hand on his. “We thought we were protecting her, but we were wrong. Stacy loved you so much.”
“We were soul mates. I know that sounds sappy and stupid, but it’s true. Sometimes you just know. With Stacy, I knew immediately. At first, I didn’t admit it to myself that she was the one for me,” he chuckles, “at least, not for another couple of weeks.”
“You’ve remarried.” I say.
Power boils around me—invisible, enraged, hostile energy. Oh Lord, Stacy’s a powerful, pissed-off spirit, and she appears to be jealous of Harry’s new wife. Even more excited, I feel my demon’s ears prick—that is, if he has any.
Hyperaware, I reach out with every sense while my eyes search the room. Where the hell is this ghost?
Looking down, literally wringing his hands, Harry continues, “I wanted to die when she did. I never felt any pain like it.” He breathes in sharply, experiencing a shadow of that pain right now. Closing his eyes briefly, he exhales, swallows.
“Janice—my new wife, was Stacy’s best friend. Both of us were utterly crushed. It was that terrible loss that brought us together. We helped each other through.” He looks up. “We have two wonderful children.”
“That’s lovely.”
His brows knit. “Look, I need to know Stacy’s OK. The way things finished, we never even said good bye.” His fists, resting on his thighs, clench. “If possible, I’d like to find out who took her from me, from the life we had—from the future we should’ve had together.”
“I understand,” I say soothingly. “Can you give me a quiet moment while I look for her?”
“Of course.”
I lift my amethyst crystal, an unnecessary action I use for show. “Stacy. Stacy Pohlmann. Please show yourself. People who love you are here. They want to help you move on.”
A flash of lights, a blur of movement in my peripheral vision. In a heartbeat, Stacy’s ghost enters my body�
�it feels as though a hundred shards of ice slam into my brain. As far as splitting headaches go, I’ve hit the jackpot. My sight grows fuzzy. Dizziness, nausea, and agony fight for supremacy.
I can’t even scream.
No! Too much! Too fucking much!
Damn, I know this feeling. I’m going to pass out. With this dramatic exit, Elana will be even more convinced I’m a fraud. Oh well, can’t be helped.
Dropping into the quiet, dark safety of oblivion, the agony vanishes.
Chapter 41.
The story seems a lifetime long. It isn’t an outline, it’s everything. Like a work of art, every detail has been captured and expertly painted in. Love, friendship, trust, and betrayal. I’m fully immersed, living the dead woman’s life.
Then I wake up.
I hear a female voice cursing, as the biting taste of ozone fills my senses.
I come back to myself in a blind fury, swearing a blue streak in a voice not my own, and speaking in Spanish of all things. My vision dims to muted twilight, while demonic magic sends out showers of sparks. That explains the fresh rain, thunderstormy, ozone taste and smell.
My demon enjoys the poltergeist’s off-the-charts rage. Emotionally raw, every nuance of each negative feeling is exquisitely exaggerated. Humming with power, demonic energy is a spray of glowing embers flying through the shadows.
Joyously flexing and stretching, my inner friend revels in violent emotion. I’d fear he’s taken my body over, except I know he hasn’t. I’m perfectly aware who has: Stacy Pohlmann.
The ghost of the girl claws around inside of me. She’s seriously pissed off.
Supernatural symbiosis at its finest, my demon feeds from her angry energy, while the spirit feeds from him. It’s a loop of coiling power that’s growing greater with every passing moment.
Worse, the poltergeist within me knows it.
Fuck. Nothing like a dangerous ghostly entity who’s aware of her potential to gain power. A recipe for disaster.
