Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  Psychic For Hire Series

  Books 1–4

  Angel of Death

  Copycat Killer

  Killer Moon

  Killer’s Gambit

  by HERMIONE STARK

  Copyright © 2018 by Hermione Stark.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. The people, places and situations in this book are products of the author’s imagination and in no way reflect real or true events.

  Psychic For Hire Series Books 1-4

  By HERMIONE STARK

  The first three paranormal mystery thrillers in the Psychic For Hire series: Angel of Death, Copycat Killer, Killer Moon and Killer’s Gambit.

  Have you met Diana Bellona?

  She's a problem solver, and dreamer of death, a girl with a mortal enemy who won’t stop until he gets her. But Diana has no memory of her past and does not know who she is. The only thing she’s sure about is that the deaths she dreams of always come true.

  So when she dreams of murder, she’s the one who has to hunt down the worst of the worst: paranormal killers ingenious enough that even specialist demon hunters can’t track them down. But Diana’s own troubled past has taken its toll. She is haunted by nightmares of her own nemesis, who is growing ever closer to finding her. All she wants is for the dreams to stop so she can finally find some peace.

  But it's not as easy as that.

  A little voice in her head keeps telling her she’s the Angel of Death. It’s not just something she can walk away from...

  Angel of Death

  Psychic For Hire Series

  Book 1

  by HERMIONE STARK

  Angel of Death

  By HERMIONE STARK

  My name is Diana Bellona and I am the Angel of Death.

  Except I can’t be, because the Angel of Death isn’t human, and couldn’t possibly be a helpless girl kept imprisoned by her cruel adoptive family for years. The only thing I’m sure about is that the deaths I dream of always come true.

  And now I have dreamt of the murder of Xander Daxx, an angelus who is about to marry an English princess. A murder which could spark war between humans and otherkind. I risk everything to escape, only to arrive at a castle with a royal engagement party in full swing, where no one wants to believe me. Worse, I find myself falling for Xander’s long-time nemesis, the mysterious Constantine Storm with his dangerous past.

  I don’t even know if an Angel of Death is supposed to save people. But I must, because the closer I get to the killer, the closer the killer is getting to me.

  Chapter 1

  DIANA

  A creak on the floorboard outside my bedroom wakes me. My heart pounds and I sit up very quietly in bed, taking care not to make a sound. My room is dark, as is the world outside my curtain-less windows. The floorboard creaks again, straining under a heavy footstep. Then the door handle slowly turns.

  I have seen that handle turn in a dream. Which is why an old sweatshirt and a tattered dress is wedged into the crack beneath the door, and why my camp bed — the largest thing in this attic room — is pushed up against it. I have done this every night before going to sleep ever since I had the dream. But now the handle is turning for real and I am frozen, staring at it.

  My bed is too small, its metal frame too light. Even with my weight on it, if he pushes hard enough, it will slide over the old wooden floorboards and let him in.

  Let him come, says a sly little voice inside my head, and we will show him the meaning of hell.

  Stupid voice. Urging me to do things I don’t want to do.

  Quickly, while the handle is still turning, I quietly climb out of bed and lean against it. He pushes the door, and I push back, using my whole body weight to jam the bed in to place. The door handle rattles angrily, and I grit my teeth with effort, wondering what the heck I am going to do if he really tries. I don’t say anything. If he thinks I am sleeping, then this can’t be my fault.

  The handle rattles harder. Threateningly. He is showing me his anger. He knows I am awake. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t demand for me to let him in. That is how I know it is Mr Colton, because he wouldn’t want Mrs Colton to hear him. Their son Buck wouldn’t have cared. He would have whispered nasty things through the door, and promised angry retribution for my act of defiance.

  The door jerks as Mr Colton gives it one final shove, then silence. Finally I hear him go back down the stairs. It takes me a long time before my heartbeat slows down and before I feel okay enough to climb back into the bed and pull my blanket over myself. I am more shaken than I thought I would be. He is going to be angry in the morning.

  Who cares if he’s angry? the little voice whispers. You’re the Angel of Death, aren’t you? She snickers at this.

  I ignore her. Arguing with her is no use. She likes it.

  Before Mr Colton woke me, I had been dreaming a good-dream. Odd for a good dream to come on a night like this. I had been some where beautiful, dancing in the arms of a man who made me feel loved and safe and happy. It had felt like home. It has left a crushed up feeling in my chest that must be heartache.

  Not that I would know what home feels like. Any memories of that are buried in my mind. One day, after I leave this place, I’ll build a life like the one in my good-dreams. A new home. But for now I need to stay safe and be good. Which is hard to do when there is no one to trust.

  I had confided in Dr Carrington about the dreams, good and bad, back when his smile had been big and easy, and his questions hadn’t become intrusive and suspicious. I had trusted him to help me recover my memory, but he’d added the dreams to a list of symptoms that diagnosed me as unstable. His report had extended my probation.

  Apart from the clients, Dr Carrington is the only person I’m allowed to see. My probation officer deals with Mrs Colton directly. I don’t think anyone else knows I’m here. Not even the neighbors. There are so few people who know that a girl called Diana lives in the attic of the Colton house. Which is good. There will be no one to miss me when I go away.

  I consider whether to write tonight’s dreams in the diary Dr Carrington gave me. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to keep him happy. I wouldn’t write that the man I had danced with had wild black hair and gleaming dark eyes and midnight in his soul. A hunter. My hunter. A man who made me feel wild and free. I shudder, imagining Dr Carrington telling me that it was symbolic of me feeling helpless and longing to be saved.

  We don’t need saving, says the voice. We can save ourselves.

  “Not if you get me in trouble,” I whisper.

  You don’t want him to save you, she whispers. You want him to set you free. And what will you do when you’re finally free, my angel?

  She says the word angel like a taunt. I hate that she has heard my thoughts. I hate that she knows what I think I am, the only thing I remember about myself.

  “Quiet!” I whisper. After a moment I can almost feel her sulkily settling down inside my head.

  I decide not to write the dream down. I’ll keep this one for myself. I let the memory of the dream flow pleasantly back in. It seems sweeter than reality could possibly be. Oh, how I would love to be dancing with a man who loved me. I try to recall that feeling of being held, of being twirled around a dance floor, of being adored. As my mind slips back gently towards sleep, I suddenly jerk awake again, remembering how the dream ended – with death.

  I sit up in my bed with a jolt. Xander Daxx’s death.

  Prince Xander Daxx, the Otherworld billionaire who is going to marry a human English princess. Their engagement had been this year’s biggest scandal, enraging Mrs Colt
on to the point it made me smile, in secret of course. The news loves to make a big point of the fact he is otherkind. A demon. But to me he is so much more than that.

  I get out of bed and pull up my loose floorboard. Beneath it is a space large enough to stuff a plastic bag of a few items. I take out my own notepad and write down everything I can remember from the dream, but when I am done it is too little to go on.

  I was dancing with my hunter, and I had seen Xander Daxx somewhere nearby. Then later in the dream a gunshot had rung out, so loud that it stunned me. Xander’s body had jerked. Blood had blossomed across his white shirt, spreading so fast, coming from a little dark spot in the middle. It had happened so fast.

  I shudder, staring at my notes. It can’t be true. Not Xander Daxx. Whenever Mrs Colton lets me go on the internet, I usually manage to spend a few minutes reading news of his fabulous life, and looking at all the new pictures. Even when doing his philanthropic work he looks glamorous – building orphanages and schools, providing scholarships for talented young otherkind, collaborating with open-minded humans. Lately it has been all about the upcoming wedding. Some say he is selling out his heritage by marrying a human princess, but to me he is an inspiration.

  Xander Daxx can’t die. No way. He is too important.

  The notes in my pad feel like an ill omen. I rip out the pages and tear them to shreds. I put them in my metal bedpan and strike a match and set them alight. It won’t happen. He is surrounded by bodyguards, top security people. They won’t let it.

  And yet a part of my mind wonders if a human will kill him. If there will be riots, like there were years ago when that human movie star murdered his infamous angelus wife and got away with it. And she hadn’t even been Otherworld royalty.

  As I watch my words burn, I shiver. The dream had the feel of a true vision. It had that crystalline sense of reality. Like the one I kept having last summer of the teenage girl, not much younger than me, who had gone missing while cycling home from our local high school, the one I went to for a few short days. They’d searched for her for weeks. Press releases with crying parents and everything. And all the while I had dreamt of a shadowy man hanging her still body from a tree. Mrs Colton had told me to keep my mouth shut. That we weren’t going to the police, that there was no reward on offer.

  I had secretly called them anyway. Stupid me. Police officers had come to the house. Accused me of knowing too much. They’d searched my things. Threatened me with prison.

  Only Dr Carrington speaking up about my unstable mental health had saved me. I’d been let off with a warning for wasting police time. Mrs Colton had been incensed. More concerned for what the neighbors were thinking than of the missing girl. And she had made me suffer for it.

  Weeks later, I had read in the papers that they found the girl hanging in a tree, her long blond hair cut off. Suicide, they said. In the photos she had looked a bit like me. Maybe that’s why my mind had gone haywire, imagining such awful things.

  Like the way it is going haywire now. The memory of Xander Daxx dying makes me feel sick. My head feels oddly heavy, and my body feels clammy. I’d think I was coming down with a bug, except that I am never ill. A warm feeling around my eyes makes me realize that I am on the verge of tears. I squeeze my palms against my eyes until the feeling subsides. There is no point to crying.

  I return my notepad to its hiding place. What could I do anyway? Tell Mrs Colton, a woman who calls me whacko, though she knows I’m not? She might do something if she thought she could make money out of it, like going to the press. But first she’d stick pictures of Xander Daxx up all around my room and make me stare at them for hours in the hope of driving out more accurate visions. I’d have to see him die again and again.

  I can’t bear the thought of it. There are too many evil things in the world. Vampires. Goblins. Gruesome murderers like the Devil Claw Killer. Me, because the Angel of Death is supposed to be evil, isn’t she?

  It is best if I stay out of it. I cannot do anything to change things. Trying would drive me mad. I don’t even have any useful powers. Human is what I am. No, best not to say anything. With these thoughts whirling in my head, it is a long time before I am able to get back to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  DIANA

  I wake up to the sound of crockery smashing and raised voices in the kitchen. It is morning. Mr and Mrs Colton are fighting again.

  I lay in bed, stretching my body in an effort to ease the tension in it. I am hungry but going down for breakfast would be a bad idea. In a scale from irritated to rabid, Mrs Colton sounds ready to blow. It is better if I wait in my room until after Mr Colton goes to work, then perhaps by lunchtime I’ll have earned enough goodwill to be allowed to eat.

  The heavy thump of a ball bouncing outside takes me over to my window. I pull the curtain aside just a tiny bit, and peak out through the bars to see that both of the Colton’s grown sons are in the backyard playing basketball. Damnit – that means they’re staying home today.

  With Buck and Cody outside, and the noise of Mr and Mrs Colton fighting inside, maybe I’ll be able to sneak down to the bathroom. Mrs Colton does not like me using it. I am worthy only of a bedpan, which I am supposed to empty only when they’re not home so that no one else is being inconvenienced by me. But I hate using it.

  And I want a proper wash. We have an appointment today. A new client Mrs Colton is keen to impress. I had to clean the house extra hard yesterday. But Mrs Colton doesn’t care if I look unkempt in front of strangers. She says it adds authenticity, making me look like their typical idea of a crazy psychic. Really I think she wants for the clients not to take an unwanted interest in me. Nobody loves a hobo. But I really don’t want to look like that for this client.

  I quickly drag my bed away from the door, grab a few things and sneak down the stairs from the attic to the first floor, wincing at every creak of the old floorboards. I make it to the bathroom uncaught, and quickly wash my face and brush my teeth. I will use the toilet last, because they are sure to hear the sound of the flush.

  Taking a shower when the men are in the house is asking for trouble, so a sponge-bath will have to do. I strip off all of my clothes, avoiding looking in the mirror as I do it. I don’t particularly enjoy seeing the part of my body that clearly tells me that no matter how human I seem, I can’t possibly be human.

  Fused into the flesh of my navel is an ugly and dull grey-black stone. Mrs Colton yelped in dismayed disgust the first time she saw it. By then she’d already told me that my body was sinful and my flaxen hair was wanton and my over-bright eyes were greedy, and I better watch myself in her household. But the stone had made her shriek that I am the devil’s child.

  Heck, perhaps I am. Perhaps that is what the Angel of Death is. Sometimes I wonder if I made it all up in my head, but my first memory of myself, which was so overwhelmingly powerful it had felt like it was seared into my brain, is that I am the Angel of Death. I know it like I know the color of my hair and the shape of my hands and the sound of my voice. The amnesia had taken everything else, and left me only that.

  But if I really am the Angel of Death, why the hell am I in this human body? Why do I hate the thought of violence no matter how much the little voice tells me I should love it? And shouldn’t I be able to do more than just cower when Mrs Colton hits me? If only she knew of the things the voice told me to do to her, then she’d think I was the devil’s child for sure.

  Every time she reads about something awful happening in the newspapers she looks at me like it is my fault. Sometimes she accuses me of dreaming of it and never telling her. Evil dreams come to evil souls, she says. And that a heck of a lot more evil things have happened in this town since I arrived.

  But it can’t be true. I think my navelstone creeped her out so now she notices bad news more often. There aren’t any otherkind in this neighborhood, so she has only me to blame. She says if her fool of a sister had known I was the spawn of demon-flesh, her sister would never have adopted me. />
  As I finish sponging myself clean, I hear the sound of angry footsteps stomping up the stairs. I drop the sponge and race to drag my clothes on, struggling with them as they cling to my wet body.

  The door handle rattles. There is a pause. Then Mrs Colton snarls angrily, “What are you doing in there, girl? Haven’t I told you a thousand times that you aren’t allowed to lock this door?”

  “Sorry!” I yelp. “Just one second.”

  Haste makes my fingers clumsy. As I struggle to fasten my buttons, I hear Mr Colton’s heavy tread charging up the stairs.

  “Stand aside, Mary,” he says eagerly, and then the handle rattles vigorously. With a crash the door flies open. He has slammed it with his shoulder.

  He strides into the bathroom and drags me out by my upper arm. The top few buttons on my nightshirt are not fully fastened and the cloth is clinging wetly, but at least my navel is covered. He has a piggy greedy look in his eyes.