Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  I grab it and descend gratefully, whispering my thanks to whatever benevolent force in the universe might be out there watching me. I speed up, desperate to get as far from the house as possible. Suddenly, when I am half way to the ground, I hear a creak. Then the rung under my foot snaps, the old wood giving way.

  My heart lurches. My right hand, already reaching for another rung, scrambles for purchase. And fails. And then I am falling, rough wood tearing at my hands. The ground rushes up to meet me. My ankle twists hard. Before I can stop myself, I screech in pain, loud and harsh in the quiet night.

  Chapter 7

  DIANA

  I clap my hands over my mouth and moan quietly. The pain in my ankle is intense. When I try to stand on it, agony shoots through it, and my leg buckles. I think it might be broken.

  Moaning quietly, I hop forward, unable to put my weight on one leg. Every movement jars my ankle, sending a wave of pain through me. I keep going. I dare not glance back until I am halfway down the street, and then I am utterly relieved to see the lights have not come on in the house. They did not hear me. AngelBeast is inside there somewhere. I never said goodbye. I wonder if she will miss me.

  I feel pursued, as if they might realize at any moment that I am gone. The road is empty and quiet and eerie in the amber glow of the street lamps.

  The night is chilly, and I am shaking. I don’t know whether from the shock of the pain, or from the chill. I should have worn thicker layers. I continue hopping agonizingly slowly in the direction of the bus stop. It is only when I reach it that I remember that this bus was going to take me to the women’s shelter. I have no idea whether there is a bus that will take me to the airport, and nor do I have enough money to pay for a more expensive ticket. The few cents I stole here and there over the years haven’t amounted to much.

  I collapse gratefully on to the bench within the small bus shelter. But after a short while I worry about being seen by someone. I hop over to a nearby clump of dense bushes and gingerly lower myself down to the ground. Here there is a chance no one will notice me. My ankle is throbbing violently. My hands sting where they have been cut up by the bark. My eyelids soon become heavy, my body yearning to sleep so that it can heal itself, but I dare not allow my eyes to close.

  It seems hours until the sun inches into the sky, bringing the new day. Cars begin to drive down the road. The early risers are heading into work. I keep my eyes away from the direction of the Colton’s house which is visible in the distance, worried my mere gaze might somehow draw their attention. The boys were supposed to be leaving early for a road trip with friends and I hope they will be going in the opposite direction. But Mr Colton drives past here for work.

  Eventually, after I am sure that Mr Colton must have passed by already, I hop back to the bus stop. Feeling faint from exhaustion, I read some of the signs on it. I see that the bus I had intended to catch goes to a big bus station at the end of its route. I can only hope there are buses that go from there to the airport.

  The Coltons will come after me for sure. I can only hope that Mrs Colton will not notice my absence until lunch. It is not uncommon for me to have to stay in my room all morning and only go down in the afternoon to do my chores. I tell myself that I will be long gone by then.

  My ankle is in agony, and my head is aching from the effort of staying awake. My body is screaming at me to rest, to heal. I am scared the urge might make me pass out. I need to get somewhere safe, and fast.

  I wait nearly an hour for my bus to arrive, hiding in the bushes so that people driving by will not notice me. Finally the bus comes and I rush to get on it. The driver, a man, stares at my bruised face as I ask for a ticket. Feeling uncomfortable, I bow my head to let my hair hang over it. I tell him I am going to the stop nearest the women’s shelter. His eyes scan me from the top of my long pale hair and down to my baggy old clothes.

  “Where you coming from?” he demands.

  I shrug.

  His eyes narrow. “Your old man know you’re out here?”

  I thrust the money at him, showing him that I can afford to pay. He considers it with a sneer. Then he shrugs, and hands me my ticket.

  As I hop up the narrow aisle between the seats, it feels like the eyes of the other passengers are crawling all over me. The bus starts moving and I have to clutch the seats to stay upright. I find an empty seat and quickly sit down. I let my hair fall over my face again, hoping that it will make them stop staring.

  As the bus drives along, slow in all the traffic, I stuff a handful of raisins in my mouth to fend off my ravening hunger. The bus seems to go at an agonizing crawl. I fight to keep my eyes open.

  The passengers leave one by one, and we pass the women’s shelter stop. I hold my breath and stay on the bus, scared the driver will call me out. He does not. He is busy with a bunch of passengers who have just got on. I crunch up lower in my seat as the bus sets off again. Every stop from then on is a trauma, a chance to get caught. Finally we get to the bus station and the driver tells us to all get off.

  I keep my head hanging low as I follow everyone else out, and make sure my hair is swinging over my face as I pass the driver. Once outside, there are even more people to stare at me. I must look all wrong. I see a sign for a restroom, and hop slowly over there, my body shaking with the effort.

  I lock myself into a stall, and collapse down onto the toilet seat to inspect my ankle. It has swollen into a ball. It throbs awfully when I touch it. The sides of my shoe are cutting into it. I want to take my shoe off but the pain is too intense when I try. I have held the healing sleep at bay for so long that I feel like I might pass out. This cubicle is no place to sleep though. That is my last thought before I sag into unconsciousness.

  When I wake my heart is pounding from the dream. A sharp knife slashing. Blood and violence. It has left me trembling. I stand up and realized my foot is no longer in agony. I check it and the swelling has completely subsided. I put weight on it, and it feels only a little tender. I must have slept for hours. Panic hits me. How long have I slept?

  Horrified that I may have missed my flight, I rush out the cubicle. A clock on the restroom wall shows me that it is not yet four o’ clock in the afternoon. I haven’t missed it. Feeling utterly relieved, I take a few minutes to wash my grubby hands and splash some water on my face.

  Smudges of dried blood on my face remain over where a black eye and a cut lip used to be. I rub them off, leaving my face clean. I thought using my hair to cover my face was a good idea, but the mirror says otherwise. My hair is too distinctive. The pale flaxen locks fall all the way down to my waist in thick waves. The Coltons must be out looking for me by now. Even driving by, they would know it was me with just one look at my hair.

  I wish I had scissors to cut it off, or even a hat so that I could cover it. I resort to braiding it into a thick rope and then hiding it under my cardigan.

  Staying in here fussing with my appearance is doing me no good. I cannot hide forever. The longer I wait here, the better the chances the Coltons will find me. And I haven’t even looked up whether there is a bus to the airport. I might have no money for it, but the least I can do is find out where it goes from and when.

  Feeling tired and sluggish, drained from the healing, I have to force myself to leave the restroom and go into the main waiting area to look at the screens. There is an airport bus leaving in thirty minutes from departure gate six. Feeling hopeful, I walk over to gate six to find a bus is pulling into it. The door opens and people with a lot of luggage come out of it.

  A man with a big wheelie suitcase rushes from behind me to talk to the bus driver. The driver seems to instruct him to wait, pointing to a nearby bench. As the man rolls his luggage there, the driver shuts the bus door and leaves. This must be the bus that will go back to the airport in thirty minutes. A sign on the bus window confirms it.

  My eyes linger on the closed doors. If only he had left them open. I could have crept in. I look around. Nobody is watching the bus except m
e. The man waiting with his luggage is now reading a magazine. I wonder idly if he might drop his ticket. If I might pick it up and take it. And then I feel disgusted with myself. In my desperation, am I really going to steal from strangers? I can’t do it. I just can’t.

  I turn away from him and stare at the bus, wishing an answer would present itself. It seems so cruel to be so close to it, and yet have no way to get onto it. I feel like all my life I have been staring at closed doors and not even daring to try and open them. Yet just a few hours ago I had been battling with my closed attic door, and look at me now.

  There is always away. There has to be. I could take a risk and try to open that door. What is the worst that can happen? That I’ll end up back with the Coltons’ or locked up in Maplewood Park? Prison could hardly be worse.

  The little voice has told me often enough that perception is king. That you can do anything and go anywhere if people think you belong there. I pray she was right. The only problem is that you probably have to dress the part too, and I am dressed like a hobo. Even so, I walk up to the bus as if I have every right to. I slip my fingers into the cracks between the door and I pull and pull with all my might. To my shock the door pops open.

  Quickly, I climb in. I half expect someone to shout at me. Something like, “Stop, thief!” But nobody says anything. I pull the door closed after me, and I hastily walk all the way to the back seat. I curl up on it as if I was sleeping. If the driver comes back and finds me, I can always say I had already been on the bus. But I pray hard that he will not notice that I am here.

  After some time I hear the driver return. He keeps the door open and lets other passengers in. One of them comes right to the back seat. I lay still, making out like I am trying to nap. She mutters a complaint to herself about inconsiderate people taking up all the space, and then she goes to find herself another seat.

  I cannot believe it has worked. I wait anxiously as the bus fills up, and the engine starts. Even during whole drive, I fear that at any moment someone will realize that I am not supposed to be here. Every time the bus stops for more passengers, I worry a ticket inspector will arrive and demand to see my ticket.

  Somehow I manage to fall asleep again, which is a mistake because I wake up tossing and turning, the awful dream still at the front of my mind. The smell of blood, the drenched bed, the applesmoke, something awful on the wall that my mind refuses to remember. It is so vivid. I lean my head against the cool window. I can’t wait to never dream such awful things again.

  My exhaustion has subsided a bit. I flex my ankle, and it does not even twinge. The other passengers are beginning to get up, stretching, readying to disembark. I realize with a jolt that the bus has stopped. We are at the airport.

  It is all I can do to not run off the bus yelling in relief. But I keep my head down and I walk slowly behind everyone else, pretending like I belong. I follow the pack to the airport departure lounge, them with their luggage and me with nothing but my little cloth bag.

  The airport makes my head spin. The bright lights and the buzz and the shopping stands and people browsing and marching and purposefully loitering everywhere. They are going somewhere. So am I! It is really happening. I am going to England. Royal Engagement Gala, here I come!

  I check the departure screens but I can’t see details for my flight anywhere. What I can see is that flights are boarding well before their departure times, and I have only thirty minutes until mine. All of the information desks are busy, with queues that look fifteen minutes long. Except one, where a uniformed woman is busily tapping away at a screen.

  Perception is king. I stand up tall, and paste a smile on my face and go towards her. The woman frowns when she sees me and tells me to go to another desk. I thrust my ticket at her. “Can you tell me where this flight is leaving from, please?” I say firmly.

  She scowls, but she looks at it. Her eyebrows fly up and she takes it from my hand so that she can inspect it. She taps at her computer. “Gate 130,” she says, pointing the way. “You’d better hurry. They will have started boarding already.”

  The tone of her voice lets me know that she thinks I will not make it. I start running, dodging crowds of people with heavy luggage that blocks my way. The distance to Gate 130 begins to seem like miles.

  When I get there I am panting heavily. There are no passengers in the waiting area, and for a panicked second I think the flight must have left. And then I see a woman and man at the departure desk looking at me enquiringly. The woman’s smile fades as she notices the way I’m panting. My disheveled clothes make her eyes narrow. She waves at me to come over to her. I give her my ticket, and she looks at it disbelievingly.

  “Is this yours?” she says, both of her eyebrows raised.

  “Yes.” I point at my name. “Diana Bellona. That’s me.”

  She doesn’t look like she believes me. “You’re late,” she says. “I’ll need to see your passport.”

  And that’s when it hits me how stupid I have been. I don’t have a passport.

  Chapter 8

  DIANA

  I stare at the expectant flight attendant in shock. I cannot believe I have been so stupid as to forget that I would need a passport to get on an airplane. I have never flown before. In six years I have only ever been allowed out of the Colton’s house to visit Dr Carrington.

  “I, erm… I d-don’t…” I start stuttering.

  I don’t know if I have a passport. Even if I did, I couldn’t go back and get it from the Coltons even if I had the time. I am going to miss this flight.

  I stare at her, and she stares back at me almost gloatingly. A wave of fear and resentment rises up inside me, but I fight it back, not wanting to wake the little voice. Just a short while ago I had been elated, but fear always comes back so quickly. All these years living with the Coltons has conditioned me to be scared. I hate it.

  With shaking hands, I pat my pockets. I look inside my cloth bag, wishing there was more stuff in it so that I could pretend to search to give me time to calm down. I am near panic. What if they think I have stolen this ticket? What if trying to get on this flight fraudulently is a federal offence? I have no way to prove who I am.

  The flight attendant is tapping her toe impatiently. Any minute now she might decide to call the police. And then I will have to tell them about the Coltons. And then I will end up back there.

  I pull out my envelopes and pretend to look inside them. My hands are shaking so much that I drop them on the floor. I want to show her the invitation to the party, but she will probably think I stole that too.

  “This flight is ready to leave,” she says acidly.

  “I can’t find my passport,” I mumble.

  “Important people are waiting. We can’t delay because of you!” she snaps. “Do you have it or not?”

  “Tess,” the male flight attendant says to her. “Why don’t you go ahead and get started? I’ll take care of this.”

  The woman gives me one last scathing look before she sweeps away along the corridor that leads to the plane.

  The man smiles at me. He has curly red hair and twinkly eyes. “I’m Patrick. You should have told her you don’t have a passport.”

  “But… But–”

  “Because you don’t need one for this flight.”

  “I don’t?” I choke out.

  He shakes his head. “Not if you’re otherkind. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Erm…” My mind races. What if this is a trick? His eyes are twinkling in amusement. I decide to trust him, and tell him what he seems to be encouraging me to say. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good.” He winks at me conspiratorially. “Because this is a special private flight with special exemptions. Because of Prince Xander’s Otherworld friends.” He whispers that last bit in my ear.

  I try to look like I know exactly what he is talking about, even though all my knowledge of Otherworld comes only from the media. Werewolves and vampires and angelli and more, and Otherworld, that other plane of existen
ce they come from. It still sometimes seems like a macabre fairy tale to me. I suppose am going to have to get used to it being the norm and pretend that I’ve met some of them too. I smile, and nod at Patrick.

  “Your plane ticket is all you need,” he says. “Can I see your invitation? Just in case?”

  I hand him my envelope, and he quickly checks through everything in it. When he sees the Royal Engagement Gala invitation he nods. “That’s good enough for me!”

  He gestures for me to make my way onto the plane. When I beam at him in delight he giggles and then looks embarrassed at himself.

  I hurry onto the plane. The flight attendant, Tess, scowls when she sees me. But Patrick shows me to my seat.

  The inside of the plane is alarmingly luxuriant. All of the seats are made of pale creamy leather. I sink into mine carefully, worried about damaging it. My arrival has disturbed the guy lounging in the seat next to me. He is scowling, taking in my awful clothes, and finally my face. His expression changes slightly. I give him a tentative smile, and he sits up straighter.