by P. A. Lupton
“That was miraculous,” he said, punctuating each word with a kiss. “I take back what I said before, when I told you that being empathic was a rare gift. It is not just a rare gift, but a cherished treasure as well.”
I was shocked that after the climax I’d just experienced, I could still want him so badly. I thought I would’ve needed a few minutes—or weeks—to recuperate before feeling this need again. I was even more amazed when I felt his hardness pressing at my entrance. “Oh...you don’t need some time to... ah...recover?”
He convulsed with a profound and throaty laugh. “You are so addictive,” he said. Then he became serious as he traced the shell of my ear with his tongue, and breathed, “I want to be inside you.”
My stomach clenched at his admission, and heat and moisture flooded the juncture between my shaky legs. He reclaimed my lips as he thrust in slow, gradual strokes, until he was totally sheathed inside me. It was exquisite. I was so in tune with him, feeling everything he felt. We both groaned in satisfaction, and like before, I gave him my pleasure, allowing him to feel it as well. It was becoming easier—I didn’t need to concentrate to project my feelings. It was almost instinctual.
While gazing into my eyes, he hesitated. My heart thumped irregularly as I sensed the depth of emotion coming from him, and then lost all ability to think as he continued to thrust into me repeatedly. His movements were perfect, as if choreographed especially for my body. I was completely and utterly engulfed in bliss as he hit every sensitive spot and knew unerringly what felt best. There was definitely nothing tepid or monotonous about this. For a moment, it was so wonderful, I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. The pleasure built in me all over again until, with another scream, it peaked and exploded once more. Nathan shuddered as I dragged him with me, triggering his own explosive release.
I lost track of how many times we’d made love that afternoon, or in how many different rooms. But Nathan and I were proving to be completely insatiable.
After dinner, we settled in front of the fireplace on a pile of throw pillows that he’d arranged on the ground. It was lovely—we alternately talked and made love until late into the night.
At some point, I fell asleep with my head on his chest. I was spent, so completely and utterly exhausted, that I hadn’t even stirred when he carried me to his bed and tucked us in.
Chapter 12
Focusing on work was an exercise in futility. No matter how many times I tried to avoid it, my mind continuously wandered back to Nathan and our weekend together. Not to mention last night.
Nathan had awoken me multiple times throughout the night, kissing every inch of my naked body until I stirred. And then the memory of waking up in the morning, cocooned in his arms, replayed itself in my head over and over, contentment filling me each time the vision repeated. After we’d finally gotten out of bed, we shared a long shower, which explained why, despite being an early riser I was almost late for work.
I couldn’t get enough of him.
Just as I was in the midst of a particularly explicit memory, Morrison burst into my office. “Morning Reece, I’d ask how your weekend was, but judging by the shit-eating grin on your face, I’m guessing it was pretty good,” Morrison joked, plopping into the chair across from my desk.
I felt my cheeks and neck flush with heat, and hoped he didn’t notice.
He chuckled. “Oh, my. What a nice shade of red. Now you have to tell me about it.”
Yeah, right. I wondered how he’d react if I told him the truth. Well, this weekend I found out that vampires really do exist and then I spent hours upon hours having the best sex of my life with one. Oh yeah, and he’s a suspect in an ongoing case.
I settled for lying instead. “There’s nothing to tell.” Then I asked, in a less than subtle attempt to change the subject, “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Agent Hunter wants a debriefing in the conference room in ten minutes.” His jovial light-hearted demeanor was now replaced by the serious FBI mien he typically wore.
“Okay. I’ll meet you there and help you set up.” I stood and grabbed the case files.
Ten minutes later,presentation boards cluttered the conference room—some filled with pictures of our victims, others with time lines and flow charts. Agents Malone, Gravelle, and Fleming—who were also working the case—piled into the room and sat around the conference table, ready to begin.
“Agent Morrison has discovered some new evidence so I’ve asked him to debrief us this morning.” Agent Hunter said, and then gave Morrison the floor.
“I believe we may have found another victim.” He held up a photo of a young woman. She had curly chestnut-brown hair that fell past her shoulders and, just like the other victims, her eyes were a startling crystal-blue color. I deflated when I saw the picture, not realizing how much I’d hoped her death wasn’t related to this case, that somehow Morrison was wrong despite the coincidences. However, when I saw the undeniable resemblance to the other women, to myself, I couldn’t ignore the truth—she was my family. I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat.
The other agents, including Agent Hunter, all snuck surreptitious glances my way when the photo was displayed. Each of them politely ignoring the eerie resemblance between the other victims and myself.
“Celia Ryder was found dead in her house on March 31. She was killed March 30th.” He pinned her picture to the corkboard beside the other victims, and then moved over to the time line.
“Sherri Marcone was killed February 28. Leslie Harper April 28. Initially, when we had just the two victims we thought he was killing on the 28th of the month, and that perhaps the day held some significance for him. But Morganna was killed on the 27th. That bothered me, so I searched to see if there was anythingsignificant about those dates. And there is—they each fell on the night of the full moon.”
He pulled up a calendar on the projector with the dates of each full moon highlighted in the background.
“I started to wonder why he missed the March 30th full moon, and after a search of deaths on that date matching the victim’s descriptions, I discovered Celia Ryder. Her death was listed as natural causes, but the Sheriff is having the body exhumed and autopsied, and they’ll be running a comparative DNA analysis, as well. I’m fairly confident she’s a victim, and I think we should operate under that assumption until the results are back.” He glanced pointedly to Agent Hunter when he made the suggestion.
“Agreed,” Agent Hunter said. “Where are we on motive? Do we have any idea why he’s choosing these women?”
My body automatically stiffened. I knew exactly why they were chosen, but I couldn’t say anything. I’d always had hunches and other feelings during an investigation that I couldn’t explain, but this was different—I was withholding evidence. It didn’t sit well with me.
“Agent Reece had an interesting theory about motive.” Morrison reached into another file and pulled out some papers. “One of Morganna’s friends told us a story about her having some sort of psychic ability. I thought it was crazy talk, but Reece suggested we speak to some witnesses again and find out if there were any similar rumors about the other victims.”
Agents Fleming and Gravelle snickered loudly while Ian Malone, also known as the office clown, began whistling the tune to The X-Files. Then all of the agents broke into peals of laughter. Obviously, no one in the room was a believer.
Morrison laughed as well. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought at first. That is until one of Leslie’s co-workers told a comparable story about her possessing psychic abilities. And while I was in Sanford, Colorado this weekend, I found a newspaper article about Celia’s death.”
He tossed a print of the newspaper article into the center of the conference table, and then flipped the projector screen to display the article for everyone could see. The headline read “Local Psychic Found Dead.”
I sucked in a startled breath. Apparently, Celia was open about her gifts.
“Come on. You don’t seriously believe th
is, do you?” Jason Fleming posed the question, doubt thick in his tone.
“Not at first, but think about it. These are four different women, professional women. Morganna was a psychologist—do you think she went around flaunting she was psychic for kicks? It would’ve discredited her.
“None of them knew each other, and two of them weren’t even living in Denver. Two of the victims hid the fact they were psychic;only close friends knew the stories, and they were sworn to secrecy. Why would they try to hide it if they were faking? They say that these sorts of abilities are hereditary—maybe they really did possess some form of extra sensory perception.”
Everyone silently mulled over Morrison’s arguments until Agent Hunter spoke. “You bring up an interesting point, Agent Morrison. Still, I don’t think the victims’ psychic ability is our motive.”
Morrison started to protest, but Agent Hunter lifted his hand, stalling his response. “If the killer targeted them simply because he thought they were psychic, then there would be more random deaths—there are plenty of self-proclaimed psychics. But he has chosen these women specifically. Why? I think their relationship is the trigger, being psychic may just be a byproduct.
Morrison blew out a frustrated sigh. “You’re probably right. So, we’re back to where we started.”
“Not exactly. It’s apparent he wants their blood, and that they clearly have similar markers since they’re family. Let’s follow the blood. Start by verifying if any of the victims donated blood or had their blood tested. Maybe he has some way to flag it. I mean, it’s unlikely, but worth checking. The FBI and other law enforcement track DNA through databases—maybe the killer works in law enforcement, or perhaps a lab or health clinic where he’d have access to that information.
“Morrison, Reece, I want you two pulling all of the victims’ prior medical histories. I want everything—if they had any blood work, when they had a cold, measles, or even the chicken pox.”
He turned to face the other agents in the room. “Gravelle, Fleming. I want you two tracking down any possible family members. I want complete background checks on the victims and their parents. We need to know why they didn’t seem to have any inkling they were related. If there are any others out there, they could be in danger.
“Malone, you search the date of every full moon for the past few years, every state. I want you to input the description of the victims and see if there are any other possibles we haven’t discovered yet. At least nowwe know what dates to look for—that should help narrow down the results.”
He stood and his lips tightened as he looked at the screen displaying the calendar of full moon dates. “And I don’t think I need to warn you all that June 26th is the next full moon, and it’s less than two weeks from now. We need to hurry.”
***
Things were never as easy as they appeared on television. In reality, tracking down the medical records of four different women in two states, and three different cities, was an exercise in persistence. Some of the victims moved around as frequently as I had growing up—guess that was part and parcel of being on the run. It took us until the end of the week before we had all of their medical files.
My life at the moment was a morass of contradictions: conflicting emotions, conflicting priorities and conflicting loyalties. On the one hand, I was grieving, the loss of my father, and the simultaneous discovery and loss of several family members, was taking its toll. On the other hand, I was implausibly content when I was with Nathan. The sadness was still there, but tolerable when he was around. The range of emotions was exhausting.
My priorities and loyalties were being severely tested, as well. Years of dedication to the FBI, and I was technically breaking the law by withholding pertinent information to this investigation. Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t reveal the truth to them. The secrecy of our family heritage was imperative, and nothing demonstrated that fact more than nine murders. My grandmother, three of my aunts, four cousins and my mother were all murdered because of who they were. There was no way I was going to bring our legacy to light; it was too dangerous.
That weekend, we stayed in my family’s home and Nathan began the arduous task of training me in witchcraft and honing my abilities. He was a patient teacher, and much more knowledgeable than I’d expected.
Despite the seriousness behind the lessons, witchcraft was intriguing and, I had to admit, fun. Magic, he explained, was all about the energy that exists in the universe. Witches with Akychi blood had the ability to manipulate that energy in an unnatural way. He utilized several books found in my grandmothers’ attic, three of them containing a family tree tracing our heritage all the way back before Christ to our original Akychi heir. The others contained spells and potions, which truthfully I found difficult to take seriously.
“Why am I suddenly picturing an old lady in a pointed cap cackling over a bubbling cauldron?” I asked, acerbically, when he showed me the book of potions.
He laughed and shook his head. “Brianna, is it so difficult to believe in the power of plants and herbs? Many of your medicines are derived from these very sources, yet you do not doubt their effectiveness.”
I flipped to a page, and rolled my eyes.“I suppose, but really—a truth potion?”
“I am sure you are familiar with a drug called sodium amytal, also known as truth serum. This is similar, only with less side effects, and it is unnecessary to introduce the potion into the blood stream. The potion need only make contact with the subjects’ skin. And, I might add, is a hundred times more effective.”
“So, basically, anyone could combine these ingredients and presto—truth potion. I find it hard to believe that people at large haven’t figured out this combination of ingredients.”
He heaved a dramatic sigh, though the action was undermined by his grin. “It wouldn’t matter if they did—you must be a witch for the potion to work. You have felt the energy that radiates from me?”
I nodded. “That is pure, unadulterated power. When a witch’s energy combines with the ingredients of a potion, whether it is a plant or an herb, your power enhances and essentially augments its properties a hundred fold. It is not possible for just any random person to achieve the same result.
“We can discuss this in length at a later time. Right now our priority must be to prepare you for the unbinding. Once your powers are no longer bound, the killer will be able to sense them if you do not learn to suppress it.”
“Nathan, I know how to raise a shield—trust me. With what I do for a living, I’ve had to learn.”
“You are efficient at erecting a shield, but you are simply blocking emotions from being able to reach you. What I will teach you is different.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe for the purpose of your job it is sufficient, but to hide yourself from a supernatural creature, it is not enough. With your shields, you are blocking the outside world from reaching you, but you are not blocking yourself from the outside world.”
“Huh?” If he thought that convoluted explanation cleared things up he was wrong.
“Brianna, right now your powers are bound,so I do not feel anything coming from you—although, there have been occasions where you have attempted to read my emotions and I could feel your power. Your talent is like a muscle, and when you flex it, you give off a little charge—it would be comparable to a small static shock.” To illustrate his point, he touched me and a small zap shot into my hand.
“Ow.” I rubbed the spot with a smile since it didn’t really hurt.
“When we unbind your powers,” he continued, unfazed, “even without using your gift, that small static shock is going to feel more like a lightning bolt to anyone with supernatural abilities.” He noticed my worried expression and flashed a reassuring smile. And when he stroked his finger along the side of my cheek, my heart sprinted into action.
“That is why these lessons are so important,” he continued, as if he were oblivious to my reaction, which I knew he wasn’t.
“I want you to try and read my emotions, but when you do it this time, I want you to simultaneously pull the static back into yourself so I cannot feel what you are doing. If you can master channeling my emotions without my awareness, then you will be ready for us to unbind your powers.”
“Okay. Let’s get started,” I proclaimed with steel determination.
By far, that was the most difficult lesson of the weekend, and when we finished the exercises, I was exhausted from the mental exertion. It was as if I was attempting to train mybody to stop blinking or breathing—a seemingly impossible task to stop, and something I’ve never really had to think about. I felt less worn out after hours of martial arts training. Just the thought of how tiring this would be when there was even more power to suppress made me want to crawl into bed and sleep.
Nathan assured me that eventually this too would become like second nature; it wouldn’t always be so depleting. Nonetheless, despite the difficulty, I was successful on one or two of my attempts. Once I got the feeling of it, it would just be a matter of practicing.
Sunday he wanted to experiment with physical sensations, not just emotional. According to Nathan, he had never heard of another Empath with the ability to connect to physical stimuli such as pain or pleasure, only emotions. He thought perhaps it was because I was a witch—not all Empaths were witches. In fact, most weren’t. It was also unheard of for an Empath to have the ability to shift those feelings onto another person. And since he discovered I had this ability, he’d believed this gift in particular could be tremendously useful...and not just in the bedroom.
After he had me establish a link with him, he experimented with inflicting physical pain to himself. Every time he cut, I felt it as if the pain were my own. He taught me to block the pain I channeled and send it back into him.It was like mirroring—I’d let it bounce off me like a reflection, and the sensation would double what he was feeling.
Throughout the weekend, I became increasingly adept at conducting both physical stimuli as well as emotional. Once I had the techniques grasped, he wanted to move on to something more complicated. His intention was to have me attempt to conjure pain from memory, rather than waiting until I picked it up from him. Then he wanted me to take the nebulous impressions, and give them substance inside him.
