Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

“Storm had asked me to keep an eye on what was happening with her,” says Remi. “And keep you updated if anything changed.”

  Hearing this makes me bite my lip. It actually hurts to know that Storm had been thinking of me but never called.

  “How is he?” I can’t help but ask.

  “He’s fine. He’d probably have called you himself if he wasn’t in Paris right now.”

  My heart lurches. Paris, the city of love. Is Storm there for work or for a holiday? I desperately want to ask, but I would only be embarrassing myself. His personal life is none of my business. His silence made that clear.

  “So, erm, you said something had changed with Magda?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Did you have a breakthrough?”

  “Unfortunately not. No new leads. Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. My contact at the morgue just called me to say that her body had been released last week.”

  “What?” I ask in shock. “What do you mean released? Where is she?”

  “You weren’t down as her next of kin,” says Remi apologetically. “The morgue was not aware, and we felt it was best not to tell them in case the information leaked.”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “I want her. Where is she?”

  I had been scrimping to save enough to pay for her funeral. I need to give her a good funeral. I need to lay her to rest with flowers and a church and everything. She’d been a woman of faith. She would want a decent burial.

  The fact that she was released a week ago horrifies me. Did they give her a pauper’s funeral? Is she in some unmarked grave somewhere where I will never be able to visit her? I am shaking as I wait for Remi to confirm this.

  “She was released to her employer. To the Palace. To Princess Caroline.” Remi pauses. She knows that I did not like the Princess Caroline, and that the princess practically hated me.

  “What does that mean? How can I get her back?” My brain struggles to catch up with this news.

  “You can’t. The funeral is today.”

  “What?” I almost drop the phone. “Today? It can’t be.”

  “Today at three o’ clock,” she confirms.

  My heart squeezes painfully. My shift ends at five o’clock. I’ll never make it.

  I am barely able to pay attention as Remi gives me the address of the church where the funeral service is being held. I mumble it several times under my breath, memorizing it. I can’t ask Smithers for any notepaper and a pen. He’ll probably make me pay for it.

  When I get off the phone I stiffly tell him that I need to finish my shift early.

  “No. Where am I supposed to get someone to cover you at this late hour?” he says. “Rosalie is clocking off at two o’ clock as it is. We need all the hands we can get.”

  “Please,” I say, hating to beg. “It’s a family emergency.”

  “I thought you didn’t have a family,” says Rosalie snidely.

  Nasty piece of work, hisses the little voice, sidling into the front of my mind. We should slap her.

  “I don’t,” I snap. “Because they’re all dead. It’s a funeral, if you must know.”

  “It can’t be a close family member,” she says pertly. “How come you only found out about it just now?”

  I grind my teeth, having no intention of telling her that my mother had been on a morgue slab for years on end while law enforcement desperately tried to find some clue that would lead them to her murderer. Rosalie is just the sort who would love to spread malicious gossip. She’d probably tell people that I had murdered my own mother.

  Why are you begging these fools? says the little voice. Just walk out. You don’t need this job anyway. I can help you find a better one.

  Ignoring her, I say in what I hope is a perfectly calm and reasonable voice, “Please, Mr Smithers, I have to go to this funeral.”

  He shrugs, not bothering to hide that he doesn’t give a damn. “Not my problem.”

  “I can help you,” says Rosalie suddenly.

  I gape at her. Rosalie doesn’t have a helpful bone in her body.

  “I can stay late and finish your shift,” she offers. “But…”

  I wait for it. There is always a price with Rosalie.

  “Only if I get double pay,” she says smugly.

  I look at Smithers hopefully, even though I already know there is no way that he will agree to this. It would take me threatening to walk out on this job for him to agree to that, and he and I both know that I’m not about to do that.

  He snorts as if what she has said is hilarious. “No.” He doesn’t even bother to give a reason.

  Rosalie raises her eyebrows at me. I know what she wants. I can pay her the extra myself or I can miss my mother’s funeral. I can’t have both. At least I will have my share of the tips. That’s something. It should be bigger than the usual pot, given the high profile client.

  With a heavy heart, and praying that the tips will be enough to cover what I need for rent, I say, “You can pay her my wages for this shift.”

  Smithers doesn’t care. He nods. Rosalie beams. But she isn’t done yet. “And I want your share of the tips too.”

  I glower at her. I want to say no. I want to tell her to get lost. To wipe that smirk off her face. But she and I both know that I won’t. “Fine,” I say grudgingly.

  “And…” she says.

  I stare at her. What the hell else can she possibly want?

  “I want your shift at the Ambassador’s Ball,” she says smugly.

  I gape at her. No way. No way in hell. I don’t care that the Ambassador’s Ball is the hottest shift going and everyone on the staff had been dying to get on it. I don’t care about the celebrities and royalty, or even that the most famous of otherkind in London will be there, it being the Otherworld Ambassador’s Ball. The only thing I care about is those tips. I can’t lose them. Smithers has already cut back two of my usual shifts this week as if to punish me.

  People who Smithers’ dislikes always end up with the worst shifts. But this time, to stop arguments about favoritism, senior management had drawn lots to allocate the coveted positions, and I had got lucky.

  Rosalie had been fuming for weeks about it. No doubt she had been hoping to catch herself a rich paramour there. She wouldn’t have missed out if Smithers had been allowed to allocate the work like he usually did. No doubt she thought it was unfair that she worked so hard to keep Smithers on her little hook and now she had lost out on the best job that would come by this year.

  And now she is trying to steal my shift.

  “No,” I say automatically.

  She only raises her eyebrows in amusement. She waits.

  I need those tips. Without them no way in hell am I gonna make my rent. But it’s my mother’s funeral. She died because of me. I vowed to bring her killer to justice, and I already messed up my best chance of that. Am I really going to miss her funeral too?

  “Fine,” I say in a low voice, unable to even look at Rosalie.

  Trilling in laughter she almost bounces out of the office.

  Chapter 3

  DIANA

  The little church looks very old and out of place among all the towering modern buildings of central London. I arrive late, my shift having been so busy it had been almost impossible to get away. The old wooden door of the church creaks as I enter, making a small group of ten or so mourners turn to look at me.

  I quickly look down at the flagstones, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I don’t want them to notice me. I don’t want them to wonder who I am and why I am here.

  My quick glance had shown that everyone is dressed in somber black attire. I didn’t have time to change. These people are dressed more respectfully than me at my own mother’s funeral. It’s fitting I suppose. No doubt they knew her better than me.

  I walk slowly down the central aisle between the pews. A small queue is shuffling down towards the open casket to pay their last respects. I join it.

  My head is a mess. I am not ready for this. I had wanted a private mome
nt with her in which to say a few words of goodbye. I don’t know what I would have said, but something to fix this hollow feeling inside of me. To ease my guilt that she’s dead. Killed by a monster who was after me. I want to tell her I’m sorry, and that I wish I had believed her when she warned me. That I wish I hadn’t run off, leaving her alone. I can’t even remember what my last words to her were, but I know they were not kind.

  As the queue gets shorter and I get closer to the front, I begin trembling. Nothing I can ever say will make it right. Maybe I shouldn't even be here. I feel like a fraud, surrounded by those who are grieving for her who actually knew her in life. I will never know her now. She had been my only hope of having a real family, and she is gone.

  What will she look like after two years? Will she look the same? How could they have left her casket open?

  When I reach the front I almost flee. But I make myself step right to the open casket and look in. It is a shock. Seeing her face, I am immediately transported back to the last time I saw her, face speckled with blood, eyes glazed and blankly staring at nothing.

  Her eyes are closed now. She does not look like herself. They have painted her skin with heavy makeup. She never wore any in life. It makes her look less real. Death has made her dark hair and haughty features more austere. I try to see myself in her face, but I am not there. She looks nothing like me, and yet she is my mother. This is the woman who gave birth to me. What must she have thought when she saw her squalling infant with a monstrous stone fused to her navel? Yet she had done everything in her power to save her baby from harm, including giving me up. I had grown up never knowing her. And now it is too late.

  My hand reaches out to touch her, but then I stop. I can’t do it.

  My lips tremble, trying to find something to say, but words do not come out. She was the one person who had known what I was, who had seen all of me, and loved me anyway. Fiercely. Until her dying breath. And I cannot find any words to say to her. The church is almost deathly silent. I can hear every movement of the other mourners who have taken their seats on the pews, their clothing rustling as they wait for me to finish.

  Only her face is visible. The blood specks are gone. They should have buried her with those specks. They were a mark of her courage. It was I who found her body. That monster DCK had torn it almost to shreds, leaving only her face intact for me to recognize. It was like he had done it on purpose, taunting me. Her body is covered now, but I know the truth of what lies beneath that pristine white shroud.

  A monster took her from me, and I have to find him and make him pay.

  I’ll do it, I promise her inside my head. I’ll get him for you if it is the last thing I do.

  I know that she would not be happy with this promise. She had told me to hide, to stay safe and grow strong. But I won’t cower. I can’t let him get away with what he has done.

  Unable to look at her corpse for a moment longer, I wish her a hasty goodbye in my head, and then return to the back of the church to take a seat. By myself.

  The priest begins to recite his prayers. His words should be comforting, but I am barely aware of them. I see heads turning one by one to take looks at me. I feel their eyes. They are wondering about me.

  There is a video of me on the internet that went viral. It appears to show Constantine Storm and Xander Daxx fighting over me in a plush guest bedroom at Wintersdeep Castle during Xander’s Royal Engagement Gala two years ago. It’s not the truth of course, but the millions who watched it didn’t care to know the truth. The sordid lie is more entertaining.

  The snatches of chit chat I heard earlier in the queue told me these people worked with Magda. Their heads turn more than once and I know one must have recognized me and told the others. My long pale hair is distinctive, even though I have chopped it shorter than it was. They don’t know my relationship to Magda. She had given me up for adoption when I was a baby to keep me safe. She would never have told.

  I wonder how many of them truly loved Magda. Not many, I think. She’d kept herself isolated, always fearful that she would be found and killed. Most of them must be here out of curiosity. It was big news when she was killed during Princess Caroline’s Royal Engagement Gala by no less a notorious persona than the Devil Claw Killer himself. They are probably disappointed with how normal this whole service is. Not a single member of press to speak of.

  Princess Caroline has not bothered to attend. Unless she is that stiff-backed heavily shrouded woman in the front row who has sat statue-still through the whole service and is the only one not to have turned to look at me. I doubt it. Princess Caroline likes to be seen. Hiding herself away under a veil would serve no purpose.

  That she has put any effort into organizing this funeral has come as a surprise. It is beautiful. A huge floral bouquet has been laid atop the gleaming coffin, and white floral wreaths line the central aisle leading down the middle of the pews. I am pathetically grateful for them. I could not have afforded this. Magda deserves this. All she got for her sacrifices is a daughter who serves canapes and clears tables for a living.

  A woman gets up to say some words in remembrance. She speaks of how dedicated Magda had been at her job, and she offers up an anecdote from a staff Christmas party. I listen dully, grinding my teeth. This is all Magda will be remembered for.

  When the service is over, I follow everyone out of the church, walking behind the coffin to its final resting place in the churchyard cemetery outside.

  The rain has started up again. Umbrellas go up. I do not have one. I determinedly bring up the rear, not wanting to be looked at or sought out for conversation. Remi said there would be a wake afterwards, but I cannot go to that. I stand behind the group, listening to the priest say another prayer.

  It hurts that Princess Caroline did not come. Magda was her loyal servant for over a decade, since the princess was a girl. Her absence speaks volumes about how little Magda meant to her in the end. My mother. It is so hard to think of her as my mother. As her coffin is lowered into the ground I suddenly clench my fists. I want to cry out at them to stop. I haven’t said my goodbyes yet. I still need her.

  And then a warm big hand closes over mine gently, wrapping reassuring fingers over my clenched fist. I look up at him, startled. For half a heartbeat I expect Storm. But it is Xander Daxx.

  As soon as I notice that he is here, so do others. His tall and imposing presence, that tawny lion look, makes it hard for people to not see him. Whispers spread through the group, sounding almost excited. It makes me grind my teeth. They have got what they came for. Something gossip-worthy, involving a royal, no less.

  One woman’s hand slips into her pocket towards her camera phone. A single skewering glance from Xander makes her desist. She turns away, cheeks flushed hot red.

  I pull my hand away from Xander’s. Why the hell is he even here? He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently before letting it drop. He stays beside me, holding his umbrella over both of us. I wish Storm were here. And Remi. But they are not.

  When they lower Magda’s coffin into the ground, I avert my eyes, unable to watch. She hadn’t even been forty yet. Too young for this.

  “She should have lived,” I say quietly.

  Xander puts his arm around my shoulder. I let him, even though I know that people are watching and whispering. I don’t care. He’s a stranger, but I need someone to hold on to for just a moment. Yet I want to shout at him too. I want to demand to know why his fiancée did not come. How could she not care? And why did Xander bother to come?

  “Did you know Magda well?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know her at all.”

  I stiffen. “Then why are you here?”

  He looks down at me with those inscrutable grey eyes. “You know why.”

  A chill runs through me. I get the feeling that he knows Magda is my mother. I quickly look away.

  “It was you,” I murmur. “You paid for the funeral.”

  He does not correct me, and I know it is true.


  I don’t thank him because suddenly I am too angry to. I try to keep my voice from wobbling, to not make it sound personal when I say, “Your fiancée should have been here. She was one of the few people who actually knew Magda, unlike these strangers. But she didn’t give a damn. Is she really so cold-hearted? How can you marry someone like her?”

  “I have my reasons,” he murmurs, not sounding upset by my words at all.

  I wonder what reasons those could be. Shortly after their engagement gala they had postponed the wedding date, causing a frenzy of press speculation. Two years later they have still not set a new one.

  Magda’s coffin has disappeared from view into the hole. I cannot bear to watch them pile earth on top of her. I shrug Xander’s arm off and I walk away. He follows me. A car is waiting for him at the cemetery gates.