by Jory Strong
“I’m okay.”
Sophie’s brows drew together as she studied Aislinn. “You look okay on the outside.” She bit her lip. “Look, I’d feel terrible if you got hurt. Don’t get serious about him, okay? When the two of you left, Storm told me that she was hoping you and Dylan or you and Conner would hit it off. Trace is a player. He’s got a revolving door on his bedroom.”
Aislinn gave Sophie a hug as more of the walls around her heart slid into place and some of the hope faded. Her father’s world might prove to be just as painful as her mother’s world. “I’m okay,” she repeated.
Sophie hugged her back. “So does this mean you’re going to forget about going to Patrick’s place tonight?”
Aislinn shook her head. “I promised that I would help him.”
Sophie grimaced but spared Aislinn from her usual tirade on the subject of Patrick Dean.
When they got back to the table Aislinn risked a quick look at Trace’s face. Her chest tightened painfully when she could find no warmth in his features, no softness. Only the tenderness between her thighs and the faint smell of him on her skin gave testament to the fact that they’d been intimate.
Sophie’s warning rang in her ears and Aislinn steeled herself against disappointment by telling herself that whatever happened next, she was glad to have finally experienced what so many others took for granted.
Tiffany and Conner returned from the dance floor and took their seats. “I’m really impressed that you guys would all pitch in on a missing child case,” Tiffany said as she reached for her beer.
Conner laughed and said, “I wouldn’t mention it right now, it’s still a touchy subject with Dylan and Trace. They pulled all-nighters in addition to working their own shifts.”
Sophie took up the conversation. “Why’s it a touchy subject? The kid was found, right? Don’t tell me you guys are so territorial that you care which department found him.”
Miguel rolled his eyes and pointed the neck of his beer bottle toward the other detectives. “The old-timers can be pretty territorial, but what’s got them crazed is the psychic angle and the fact that it was probably a hoax.”
Tiffany frowned. “What psychic angle?”
Miguel grinned. “I’d go get you a copy of this morning’s paper, but I might get a bullet in the back, so I’ll summarize—briefly. While we were busting our asses trying to find the kid, the parents supposedly went to see a psychic who mumbled some babble over a crystal ball and told them where the kid was and just like that, the kid is found, and the police department gets a black eye, or two. Now the newspapers and TV stations are on a jag, trying to get us to start consulting some nutcase psychic every time someone goes missing. And that’s just for starters.”
“Oh,” Tiffany said in a subdued voice as she shot a look toward Sophie and Aislinn.
“Christ, I hate that psychic bullshit,” Trace said. “I’d like to lock every single one of them up. They’re all either con artists or whackos.”
Dylan touched his beer bottle to Trace’s. “I’m with you partner.”
For a second Aislinn couldn’t think. The blood roared in her ears as though it was rushing from her heart and leaving behind a huge, gaping hole. Sophie’s hand on her arm brought a measure of calm, and with it, thought. She needed to leave. There was nothing for her here. There would never be anything for her here. She cherished the psychic gifts that she’d inherited along with her elfin blood. Without them she had nothing to offer, no way to fit into this human world.
On legs that trembled slightly, Aislinn stood. “It’s been nice meeting you, thank you for the drink.”
Trace started to rise from his chair saying, “I’ll walk you to your car.” But before he’d even finished the sentence Aislinn was shaking her head no and holding her hand up as if to ward him off. “That’s okay. I’ve got to run.” And she did just that, whirling and escaping the bar before he could even clear his chair.
Trace stood there staring at where she’d been. He felt like he’d taken a head shot. What had just happened?
Yeah, he was still reeling from the fact that she’d been a virgin. Yeah, he was still feeling a little stressed by the whole unprotected sex thing, even though she’d said she wouldn’t get pregnant. It wasn’t in his nature to trust. And it sure as hell wasn’t in his nature to lose control like that and go in without taking care of the protection himself.
But Christ, that didn’t mean he wanted to quit after only one fuck. Hell no. There was no way his cock was going to go for that. He’d only come back into the bar in order to get himself back under control…and to give her tight little channel a break before he took her home and rammed himself back into her until neither of them could move.
So what the fuck had just happened? And why did he want to howl like a kid whose favorite of all favorite possessions had just been taken away?
Chapter Two
Aislinn was ashamed of the tears that streaked down her face as she drove. She dashed them away with the back of her hand and drew a shaky breath. She was stronger than this, she’d had to be in order to survive Elven-space.
She needed to stop crying, now, before she got to Patrick’s house. If he saw that she was upset, he’d try to use it as an excuse to comfort her. Despite what she’d told Sophie, Aislinn knew that Patrick’s interest in her included a desire for sex.
But she also knew that it wasn’t her he was attracted to so much as her ability to coax magic from crystals and to find missing people—humans—though he didn’t know there was a distinction. Both were meager talents when compared to what a true elf could do, but among her father’s people they allowed Aislinn to contribute, to be part of a greater whole.
She took another deep breath, this one less shaky than the last one. Everything would be okay. She needed to put what happened with Trace into perspective, to look at it like Sophie would look at it.
Hadn’t Sophie confused love and lust a few times and cried on Aislinn’s shoulder afterward? Thinking about those times eased the terrible knot in Aislinn’s chest somewhat.
Even among the Elven, it wasn’t uncommon for men and women to have an assortment of partners before finally settling into a heartbond. Surely there was sometimes a confusion as to which feelings sprang from the soul and which came from the body. Perhaps it was the human side that had confused lust with the beguilement that happens among those destined to bond.
Aislinn rubbed a hand over her heart and willed the last of the hope to leave its depths. She would be more careful next time, more cautious. And if she decided to share herself with someone again, she’d be better prepared so that it wouldn’t end with tense questions and chilly silence.
Feeling more like herself, she pulled into Patrick’s driveway and frowned at the lack of light coming from the house. The tips of her ears tingled as the crystals in her butterfly earrings transmitted a muted warning to her. It didn’t help that Patrick’s driveway was so overgrown by shrubs that even the moonlight had a difficult time getting through the thick foliage.
She ran a finger along the delicate wings on one of the butterfly earrings and chewed on a bottom lip, wondering if the uneasiness slithering along her backbone meant that Patrick was inside preparing to hold a séance for the mystery person he was seeing tonight. She’d already warned him that she wouldn’t participate in trying to call spirits back from the dead.
Aislinn shivered, tempted to leave. But Patrick had pleaded with her, telling her that the person he was seeing tonight was the most important person he’d ever seen and she’d promised to be here, for moral support. Aislinn shivered again, but opened her door and got out of the car. Honor was everything to the elves, and even though her blood wasn’t pure, she wouldn’t stain her honor by failing to keep her word.
With each step down the darkened driveway, the sense of foreboding grew in Aislinn’s chest. Twice she opened her mouth to call out, but each time some instinct held her back.
The front door to Patrick’s house w
as unlocked and slightly open. Aislinn pushed forward into the hallway. The smell of incense was heavy and sweet. She flipped the light switch and only barely managed to contain her scream at the blood-coated scene in front of her.
* * * * *
One by one the women made their excuses and left the bar. “Well, that was a bust,” Conner said as Tiffany’s ass disappeared through the door.
Miguel looked deeply into his beer bottle and sang in a low, off-key voice, “So close and yet so far away,” which netted him a whack on the back of the head from Conner.
Dylan grinned. “Hey, it wasn’t a total bust. The Pro did his thing and got something that will hopefully make him a less grumpy partner, though I admit, it wasn’t The Pro’s usual style and it did seem to go a little sideways there at the end, but…” A couple of pagers hummed simultaneously at the table.
Trace was the first one to read his and get a cell phone out. As soon as the others heard him reach the station dispatcher, they paused, waiting to see if they’d all been paged.
“Fuck,” Trace said into the phone. “This is all the department needs. Tell me the reporters don’t already have it… Goddamnit… Yeah, he’s sitting right here. Torres and Stern are, too… Fuck. Yeah, we’re on it.” He flipped his cell phone closed and scribbled an address on a napkin before saying, “Some fucking psychic got whacked. Reporters are already at the scene.”
“Who’s got the case?” Conner asked, beginning to stand.
“No determination yet. Dispatch patched me through to the Captain. He said since we’re all together, we might as well go over and make it a dog and pony show for the press. Said he’s got a bad feeling about this one.”
“Are his feelings ever wrong?” Miguel asked.
Dylan shook his head. “When it comes to media nightmare, the Captain’s got a nose that can smell the stink of one before anyone else can even see a cloud on the horizon.”
“Shit,” Miguel mumbled.
“Yeah, shit,” Conner confirmed.
The scene was a circus. Reporters and television crews were camped near every black-and-white unit. A shout went up as soon as the detectives pulled in and within seconds their cars were mobbed.
“We heard there was a witness,” a kid who looked like he was barely out of college yelled. “Has she been able to identify the killer?”
Another reporter, this one in need of deodorant, pressed a microphone into Trace’s face, and said, “We heard that the department has a psychic on scene. Is this in response to the kidnapping case? Has the department decided to use them at murder scenes, too?”
Trace gritted his teeth and pushed the mike aside, just barely missing hitting the guy in the nose with it. A woman stepped forward but before she could get a question out, several uniformed officers moved in, ordering the reporters back and making a pathway for the homicide detectives.
A woman officer lifted the crime scene tape and they slipped under. One of the male cops followed them. When they were finally out of the reporters’ sight, the uniformed cop said, “The Captain called ahead and said to be careful not to let the press get a hold of anything else. The coroner hasn’t even hauled off the body and already there’s a leak somewhere. Captain sounded like he was going to pop a blood vessel over this case.”
“What gives? Is there a witness?” Miguel asked.
“Woman-friend of the victim. She probably got here just as the killer was finishing up. She’s pretty shook up. Says she didn’t see anything, but she thinks she heard a back door close. Neighbor’s dog started barking about the same time, so it’s likely the perp went out the back.”
“Who’s the vic?” Trace grunted as they stepped on the front porch.
“Guy by the name of Patrick Dean. Supposedly holds séances, among other things. Back door was unlocked, probably from the perp leaving. No sign of forced entry. Woman-friend said he was supposed to meet some important person tonight and asked her to be there, but she doesn’t have any idea who he was meeting or what it was about. We’ve got her stashed in the kitchen. Captain wants us to find a way to keep her on ice. Cruiser went by her place. The media’s already got it staked out. That’s why the Captain’s worried about a leak.”
They got to the end of the hallway and halted at a blood-covered door. “Arterial spray,” Trace said. “No sign of a struggle. Perp would have to be strong. Most likely a man. Doesn’t feel like a woman’s crime. Victim probably let his guest in, brought him down the hallway, but when they get to this point, the perp grabs the victim and slashes across his throat.”
Conner grunted in response. Dylan and Miguel remained silent. The uniformed officer nodded, “Yeah, crime scene guys are inside. That was their read on it. Woman friend said the doorway to Dean’s consultation room was partway open. She saw the blood and came in, but the vic was already dead.”
Dylan frowned. “I wonder if the perp left the door open so he’d know if anyone came in, or whether the lady-friend just got lucky and he had enough time to escape without killing her.”
The cop shrugged. “You guys need latex gloves?”
“Yeah,” Dylan answered. The uniformed officer pulled a baggie containing gloves out of his pocket and passed them around.
As soon as the detectives were wearing the latex, the cop pushed open the door. “This is how we found him.”
“Christ,” Trace muttered.
The victim was lying on a cloth-covered table, his throat gaping from a single slashing wound, blood pooling and congealing on the dark red cloth beneath him. He was surrounded by white candles and positioned so that his arms folded and crossed on his chest. A sparkling crystal orb rested in the space between his hands.
“Fuck,” Conner said, “I got a bad feeling about this.”
They went over the scene, then every other room except the kitchen, but didn’t find anything. “Damn,” Miguel said. “Would have been nice if we could have wrapped this up by finding an appointment book telling us who he was meeting.”
Conner grunted. “Maybe we can get something from the girlfriend.”
They made the walk down to the kitchen and pushed in. Trace caught sight of Aislinn and felt like somebody’d just kicked him in the gut with steel-toed boots. Miguel muttered, “Shit,” as all four detectives came to a halt just inside the doorway.
Aislinn’s wide, deer-in-the-headlights look said she felt the same way at seeing them. Dylan said, “Maybe you’d better let us handle this, Trace.”
Now that the shock had passed, a hot fury was washing through Trace. She’d left him to come see some other man? “Fuck, no,” he growled and pushed forward, feeling a primitive satisfaction when she pressed back against her seat as he drew near. Yeah, she better be worried. She belonged to him.
The thought was like a blast of ice-cold water. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“What are you doing here?” Trace growled.
Aislinn’s lips trembled. Her gaze swung to the other detectives and Trace wanted to grab her and make her face him.
Conner put a hand on Trace’s arm and said, “Back off,” and it was all he could do to keep from taking a swing at his friend. Christ, he felt like a rabid dog.
Out of the corner of his eye, Trace saw the uniformed cop who’d been babysitting shift away from the counter and take a step toward the kitchen table where Aislinn was.
Fuck, he needed to get himself under control. Trace pulled out a chair and sat down, crowding close enough to Aislinn that their knees almost touched. She moved away slightly, which had Trace stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets to keep from hauling her right up against him.
The other three detectives pulled out chairs but gave Aislinn some space. She shivered and said, “I already told the other officers everything I know.”
Miguel leaned forward, puppy dog eyes offering comfort, and Trace gritted his teeth against the urge to push Miguel back. “We’ll try and make this quick so we can get you out of here,” Miguel said as he pulled a small notebook out of
his pocket and put it down on the table.
Aislinn’s eyes followed the notebook and stayed lowered. “How long have you known the victim?” Miguel asked.
“Patrick,” she whispered. “His name is Patrick. I’ve known him for about seven months.”
“He was your boyfriend?” Miguel asked and her eyes flew to his face, then to Trace’s before shifting back to Miguel’s.
“No. Just a friend.”
“He advertised himself as a psychic?” Conner asked.
Aislinn gave a subdued nod.
Trace growled, “Where’d you meet him?”
“He came to the shop one day, to look at crystals.”
Trace leaned forward, crowding further into Aislinn’s space. Smelling some other man’s cologne coming off her body, seeing her huddled in some other man’s jacket, even if it probably belonged to one of the uniformed cops, wasn’t helping to calm the fury that raged through his body at finding her here. “And you went out with him?”
“No. We were just friends.”
Trace took his own jacket off, then without a word grabbed her arm and pulled the offending jacket off her and wrapped his own in its place. Dylan cleared his throat. Conner muttered “shit” under his breath. Miguel shook his head and tried to get back on track. “Do you have any idea who Dean was meeting tonight?”
“No. He told me that this meeting could open the world for him and asked me to be here, for moral support.”
“What does ‘open the world for him’ mean?” Dylan asked.
“I don’t know,” Aislinn said.
Dylan persisted. “If you were to guess, what do you think Dean meant by it?”
Aislinn’s brows drew together. “He might have meant that he was meeting an important client. Or he might have simply meant that a skilled teacher was considering taking him on as an apprentice.”