by Nikki Sex
“Mr. MacLeod will understand,” my boss’s secretary reassures me. “You may go in.”
When I tap at his office door, a voice booms, “Come in!”
I walk into a plush, gray carpeted room. Mr. MacLeod’s workplace has an incredible view of Grouse mountain. In winter, from the warmth of his city office, you can watch the skiers as they glide down their runs.
“Janney, my girl, how are you?”
I look at my boss with affection and pleasure combined with a sudden sharp awareness that he’s on the wrong side of seventy. When did he get so old? A stab of pain tightens my chest.
The worst thing about longevity is watching the people you admire—like plucked flowers—wilt, fade, and die.
As usual, there’s a pleasant air of confidence about him. At perhaps five-ten, Mr. MacLeod’s once brown hair is mostly gray. His fine-boned, wrinkled features reflect well-lived years with numerous laugh lines stamped on his face. Physically, he’s frail. Where he gets his deep baritone voice, Lord only knows.
A true gentleman, he favors grand gestures and well-bred manners. There’s a mildness in his demeanor reassuring to women and children. He dresses impeccably, usually in striped trousers and crisp, white shirts. Mr. MacLeod wears silver-rimmed glasses and discreet hearing aids (smart man).
The moment he sees me his honey brown eyes light with expectation, while his razor-sharp brain concentrates on me, taking everything in.
Jonathan is a force of nature, despite his age. A powerhouse now, for the hundredth time I wonder what he was like in his youth.
My beloved boss treats me with tremendous respect. I feel so comfortable in his presence I’ve begun to allow him small insights into my true character. If I told him how old I really am, somehow I don’t think he’d be surprised. He knows I’m different. He likes me for me—not for the meek young woman everyone thinks I am.
“I’m very well, thank you, sir. Sorry I’m late.”
When we’re alone, I drop my shy act and meet his eyes without evasion. While we’ve never talked about it, he’s conscious of how much I pretend to be less than I am.
“Pfft,” he says, throwing an elegant hand in the air. “Your tardiness wouldn’t have come to my attention if you didn’t have a new client this morning.”
My lips curve with pleasure. “I have a client?”
“Yes.” There’s power and intelligence in his gaze. “They’re in the gold room waiting for you. Brenda has provided tea.”
I frown. They? Hmm. And tea drinkers. Interesting.
Our organization has four interview rooms, all designated by color. The Gold Room is intentionally upscale. That means these clients have money…lots and lots of money.
“Anything I should know before I go in?”
He shakes his head, slants me a teasing look. “Does a good psychic need clues? You’ll figure it out…or you won’t.”
Ah. He’s set me a little test.
I hesitate. The permanent line between his brows deepens, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. They seem to say, “Well?”
“No problem, sir.” I stand. “You’ll have my report later today.”
He sits back with a satisfied sigh, raises a hand, and nods to signal the end of our discussion.
More ghosts, I bet. Yay!
Last night’s nightmare seems far away. Anticipation curls inside me as I take my leave from his office. My demon is also excited. Like our adventures of this morning, assisting ghosts to cross over feeds us pure energy without negative karmic repercussions.
What’s more, we both love an interesting puzzle to sink our metaphysical teeth into.
~~~
“Where have you been, young lady?” Danvers, an ex-cop taunts, acting like an overly-protective father figure.
Abruzzo, another MacLeod employee, rocks back in his chair. His people fled racism in Oklahoma in the early 1900’s. His great-great-granddaddy was a porter on the rail road—black porters were all the rage back then. His grandfather’s personal journal is one of Abruzzo’s prize possessions.
Danvers and Abruzzo. I share an office with these two guys.
Abruzzo gives me a smirk with perfect white teeth that contrast brightly against his dark skin. “You need to be more careful, St. John,” he says in a lazy drawl. “If you’d arrived much later, someone may have reported you to Missing Persons.”
I giggle at his quip. Abruzzo and Danvers specialize in finding people. Our work-space is in the Missing Persons section of the organization. Thus, the humor. I put my bag on my desk.
I lift my chin, give them both a haughty stare. “I had to see the boss on my way in.”
Abruzzo’s brows rise. “You in trouble again?”
My sweet smile is pure saccharine. “I don’t get in trouble.”
Danvers grins at me, runs a hand through his short-cropped hair. He has a look in his eyes as though he knows something I don’t. “Ha!” he says, pointing a thick, blunt finger at me. “You were late…admit it.”
I suspect Danvers saw me arrive. I meet his eloquent gaze. “I was late, but the boss doesn’t mind.” I smirk. “He likes me.”
Abruzzo snorts. “Oh, right. Favoritism.”
“Get it while you can, kid.” Danvers snickers.
Both men laugh, pleased I’ve stood up for myself and talked back. Danvers, the older of the two, wheezes as he laughs. I scan his energy. He’s had ongoing lung problems for years, but his condition is stable, thank God.
First I’m worried about my boss, now I’m concerned for Danvers. After all this time, you’d think I’d have learned to adjust to the loss of good people.
Nope. Not going to happen.
Danvers and Abruzzo crack me up with their teasing humor. One ex-military, one ex-cop, they’re both tough and protective. For months, I acted shy around them, but more recently I’ve allowed them to “bring me out of my shell.”
It took a while, but slowly, and over time—like with my boss, I’ve shown these two guys parts of who I really am. In this work environment with these people, I’ve felt freer and more able to be myself than I have for many years.
I grab one of my large amethyst crystals I keep in my top drawer. I don’t need a crystal to see ghosts, of course, but most people feel more secure when I appear to channel through something.
“Sorry, guys…gotta run. I have a client,” I announce proudly.
“Woo hoo! You go, girl.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
Yeah, my boss and everyone who works here likes me.
Wouldn’t they be surprised to discover there’s a demon living inside my sweet exterior?
Chapter 8. The Clients
I tap on the door as a courtesy and walk into the Gold Interview Room. The carpet is a buttery cream, the walls a lighter shade of the same color. The space is tastefully highlighted in white and gold. A large mirror is framed in a gilded over-the-top French style. A tea service sits on the glass coffee table.
I inhale a deep breath and smell only expensive Chinese tea.
Whew. No scent of evil.
A quick scan shows two humans, both normal—no ghosts to be seen. Nada. Nothing. Zip.
Dressed in black, the women have blank features and compressed lips. They’re trying to give nothing away, but they can’t hide their skeptical, superior attitudes. They wait motionlessly, sitting on an elegant pure white couch.
They don’t want to be here. They think I’m beneath them, unworthy of their time. That’s OK; I’m used to biased responses. Even if I weren’t, I still wouldn’t react.
In my position, I can’t afford to be proud. Pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth—I’m careful of the seven deadly sins, especially lust. How I hunger for paranormals! Yet it’s too much of a risk to have them.
My life is a game I play to stay alive, to enjoy what fun I can, to solve the odd mystery, and to achieve my own somewhat modest goals.
I’m not sure who I would’ve become without my demon. With him on board
, I must be vigilant. I can’t ever lose my temper as strong negative emotions are a violent trigger to my opportunistic inner friend.
It is up to me to set a positive example.
Prudence, restraint, humility, wisdom, justice, persistence, kindness, patience, and courage. Who else can teach him the virtues? How else can he learn that power, knowledge, and energy can come from being good?
My infant inner friend is inexperienced and impressionable, so now is my chance. I cringe inwardly, imagining violent death for us both if I can’t civilize my demon before he comes into his full powers.
I can never forget how dangerous he is.
Still, what I wouldn’t give to screw a vampire or a shifter senseless. To completely let go and feed from their delicious power. Hell, I’d be thrilled to simply have the freedom to lose my temper. I can’t even yell at a racist or a bully without the danger of having my demon tear the poor fellow apart from the inside out.
Thank God I have a good sense of humor. It’s far more satisfying to laugh than to cry.
“How do you do?” I ask, shaking hands with both ladies. “My name is Janice St. John. How may I help you?”
The younger woman stands. “I’m Kimberly Zheng, and this is my mother, Mrs. Zheng.”
Most certainly of Chinese heritage, Mrs. Zheng nods but says nothing. Kimberly seems to be in charge of our meeting. She looks maybe twenty-five, but I’ve no idea how old her mother is. Mrs. Zheng has a lovely Asian complexion. Her skin makes her look twenty-years younger, I bet.
I sit in a wingback chair, set my amethyst in front of me on the coffee table, tuck my feet modestly together under me, and wait. There’s no way I’ll speak first.
Innocent young woman here. You two go ahead and figure things out.
Rapid fire incomprehensible conversation moves back and forth between the two women. While I’m fluent in languages from every country I’ve lived in, sadly, I’ve never resided in China.
Once they appear to come to an agreement, the younger woman turns to address me. “My mother didn’t wish to come to you,” Kimberly explains. “However, Mr. MacLeod told us he prefers every possible course of action to be taken in our case.” She frowns. “I am afraid he insisted.”
“Oh?” I wait patiently. This is clearly arm twisting on my boss’s part. It’s not up to me to persuade them.
An unnatural silence lengthens as we meet each other’s eyes. I can imagine what’s going on in her mind. Claiming to speak to the dead is a charlatan’s trick, and I appear too young and innocent to be a modern psychic. On the other hand, my age is why some people accept me—they assume I don’t have enough life experience to con people.
If they only knew.
Kimberly sighs, gives in. “My father died unexpectedly two months ago. He ran our family jewelry business. Before he passed, he had purchased a number of diamonds. We cannot find them; they were not in his safe.”
“Ah, pardon me for asking,” I interject. “Was his death due to illness or age?”
Something flashes in the young woman’s eyes. “Stroke, sudden and unanticipated. The authorities do not suspect foul play, Ms. St. John.”
I nod solemnly. “I’m sorry for your loss.” This makes things easier. It should be a straightforward case.
“Can you tell me how many children are in your family?”
“Myself and my younger sister.” Her features pinch with pain for an instant. “Our older brother died three years ago in a skiing accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She says nothing, but I can see the toll this has taken on her and her mother.
Traditionally, Chinese descent is calculated only through male links. This is why giving birth to a son is imperative. Significant ancestors are the father, father's father, father's father's father, and so on. Of course, there are families dominated by women, old people whose lives are run by their children, and so on. Yet without the presence of a son, the family line ends.
From a Chinese point of view, it’s very bad Chi—negative energy. I clear my throat. “Is anyone else close to your family? Perhaps others working in the business?”
“No.”
“I see.” I pick up the amethyst crystal, make a show of looking around the room. “Your father isn’t here right now. I suggest we meet in your parents’ home with all members of your family gathered. For this to have the most likely chance of succeeding, every living blood relation needs to be there—particularly the surviving parent and any children. When would it be convenient?”
This is the first-time Mrs. Zheng shows a reaction—she really doesn’t like this idea. My demon practically salivates as he tastes her fear. The sudden tension in her body makes me realize how strongly she dislikes the idea of a family gathering with me in attendance.
Interesting. I wonder why?
The machine gun conversation between the two women ensues once more. Today is Friday—we agree to meet Monday morning. I’m free today, but the customer comes first.
Meh. I’ll take advantage of the time delay and research more about their case before then.
Chapter 9. Ride ‘em, Cowgirl
Back home in my apartment, I spend thirty minutes primping for my night out. Red cowboy boots; a flaming-red wig; tight skinny jeans; and a scarlet tank top is my chosen outfit. My scooped neckline allows a tempting, occasional peek of the lace on my bra. Thick mascara, sweeping eyeliner, deep red lipstick and I’m done.
Yee-haw, tonight I’m a horny country cowgirl, ready for a night on the town. When I check myself out in a mirror, I know no one at work would recognize me. My make-up alone makes me look dramatically different and at least five years older.
Tonight, I’m off to Coquitlam for a live band, line-dancing, cowboys, and a quick energy feed. It’s about an hour away.
I turn in a circle before the mirror. “What do you think?” I say out loud, speaking to my demon and my four-legged companion. “Sexy, but not desperate is the look I’m going for.”
I swear my spaniel raises his eyebrows at the hint of bra showing. He snuffs and sneezes his disapproval of my outfit—judgmental bastard. My demon doesn’t care. As usual, he’s fascinated with my dog. What’s his ongoing interest anyway? It’s not as though he can feed from him.
Toby is a Welsh springer spaniel. He weighs over fifty pounds, has big paws, large, expressive eyes, and long-hanging ears. His ears and face are red, except for a thick white stripe down his nose, and a blanket of red runs down his back. He’s a healthy, good-looking dog.
The vet says he’s a flawless example of the breed—he’d likely win ribbons in a show. If I don’t want to breed him, he recommends I have him neutered. I suppose I should, but so far it isn’t a problem. Toby doesn’t try to hump my leg or anything.
I get the distinct idea my gentlemanly dog would consider such behavior tacky.
Toby came from out of nowhere and adopted me one day. God knows why. I advertised, attempting to find his rightful owner, but no one came forward. He was so sociable and pleased to hang out with me, I kept him.
My demon adores his company.
“Yes, yes,” I tell Toby as he brushes meaningfully against my legs. He hates to be left behind. I reach down and stroke one velvet-soft ear. “I’m going out on the town, and you’re coming, too. I’ll give you a run in the park, but then you’ll have to wait in the car for a while.”
He slants me a speaking glance. My canine companion always knows when I plan to pick up a man and doesn’t approve of my behavior. Does he think I should be married first or something?
“Hey,” I tell him. “A girl’s got needs, OK?”
Especially when said girl has a greedy, energy-sucking inner demon.
Why does my damned dog seem so human? For the hundredth time, I check him for any trace of magic. Nope, he registers a typical animal energy signature.
I check myself in the mirror one more time, then take in Toby’s disapproving glare. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “What? Ar
e you jealous? Do you want me to find you a girl dog?”
Clearly disgusted, Toby’s nails clip noisily on the floor as he stomps off. There’s something odd about that dog. Lots of somethings, really. But that’s a problem and a mystery for another day.
My stomach knots with hunger. I feel so empty. Yet a fast-food joint full of hamburgers wouldn’t sate this appetite. Food isn’t what I crave. With low energy levels, my demon and I need to feed.
We take the elevator down to the parking level where my dog and I climb into my beautiful white Tesla sedan. Unlike me, my car is fully powered, and can go weeks without charging. There’s a free supercharge station right here in Vancouver.
My Tesla is loaded with everything I need in order to take off in an instant—money, various identities, weapons, medical supplies—you name it. I’m prepared for practically anything.
Tonight, I put on a country playlist to appease my picky pooch. Toby has certain preferences in music, which both amuses and annoys me. The damned dog dislikes heavy metal and rock—he howls if I play anything with a strong beat. In deference to his sensitive ears (and my own!) I wear ear buds when I’m in the mood for something pounding and intense.
Luckily for me, I can appreciate almost anything with a melody.
Meanwhile, my equally picky inner monster adores Christian choral music. “Hail, Mary, Full of grace,” type stuff. When “Ave Maria” is sung in German, he soars into transports. He adores stained glass and tried to made me visit every church in Europe, an impossible task as there are so many.
There’s delicious irony in the fact my inner demon loves Jesus.
On the other hand, he absolutely hates TV. He rarely lets me watch it unless it’s a documentary or (very occasionally) a thriller. I refuse to expose him to anything violent.
To my dismay, romance, comedy, and chick flicks are out.
From outer appearances, I’m independent and living alone. How did I end up sharing my life with two such demanding creatures?
After I take my dog for a run in a park (he runs, I watch), we drive to Coquitlam. Once there, I park outside a busy tavern, crack a window for Toby, and promise him I’ll be back soon. He’s fine with this arrangement—we do this all the time.
