Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Dealt an Unfortunate Hand
It suddenly dawned on me that this man was waiting for me to say something, and the first tinges of panic tickled my neck. I had no idea what this death card was trying to say. To distract the man I laid down another card. This card was labeled THE TOWER and showed a huge medieval tower being struck by a bolt of lightning, sending its roof off to smash on the ground. People were running out of the tower as if their lives depended on it.
As I looked at this card, there was the tickle of a thought on the edge of my intuition, but it was faint and distant. I called out loudly to my crew, and demanded their presence immediately, furious that they would abandon me at the beginning of a reading. To stall for a little more time I laid down another card—this one labeled JUDGMENT, which depicted three luminescent human figures rising from the earth with outstretched arms toward an angel blowing a trumpet. In one electrifying moment I felt my crew smash back into place and I snapped my head up to look at the man in the chair as I gasped, “Oh my God! . . . You’ve killed someone!”
SIGNET
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Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2005 All rights reserved
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For my dear friend, mentor and one of the greatest
psychics in North America—Kevin Allen. Thank
you so much for your ideas, wisdom, gifts and
encouragement.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for all their help, support and encouragement in the development of this book. My sister, Sandy, who suffers through my jaw-clenching “creative” phases with bold and dogged enthusiasm, my amazing agent, Jim McCarthy, who is just a glass-half-full kind of guy—thank you for your constant reassurance, encouragement, and friendship; my incredible editor Martha Bushko, who has simply fantastic instincts and made so many of my dreams come true, assistant editor Serena Jones; and the rest of the editorial support staff at NAL. “Thanks” is far too simple a word to express how grateful I am to all of you. And Kevin Allen, psychic and friend extraordinaire, who once told me a story about a wedding he attended, and in that way gave me the seeds for one heck of a good tale; Detective Don Swiatkowski of the Royal Oak Police Department, who gave his time and energy to all of my crazy “hypotheticals”; Silas Hudson, who is one of the greatest human beings I have ever known, and who graciously allowed me to capture him in Milo Johnson; my handyman, Dave McKenzie, for being such a wonderful craftsman—you turned my house into a palace and gave me the character I needed to round out the Psychic Eye cast. And of course, my dear friends and supporters who have been the best cheering section a girl could ask for: Laurie Comnes, Thomas Robinson, Kimmie Whelchel, Brian Gorzynski, Joy Austin, Kelly Hale, Drue Rowean, Sheila Doherty, Susan DeLorenzo, and Jon and Naoko Upham. My greatest thanks to you all.
Chapter One
The three cardinal sins to be avoided by legitimate professional psychics are:Never make up or alter a psychic message
Never betray the trust of a client by revealing details of a reading to others
Above all, never, ever use your intuitive gift to cause harm to another person
As I stood in the thickening pool of blood leaking from the man I had effectively killed, I couldn’t care less that I had flagrantly committed not one, but all three of these cardinal sins. Instead, as my karmic debt for such crimes mounted to new and overwhelming heights, my only thought was the sick satisfaction of finally getting my eye for an eye.
I wasn’t always like this, you know. A mere three weeks earlier I could have been the poster child for ethical intuitives. I believed in my work as a professional psychic, giving helpful advice, lending my talent wherever it was needed and using my “gift” for good. All that changed one rainy, autumn afternoon the day before Halloween—don’tcha just love irony?
“Kendal, you cannot do this to me!” I complained into my cell phone as I navigated the rainy-day traffic of downtown Royal Oak, Michigan.
“Abby, I’ve called everybody else. You are the only person left who can pull this off—and besides, you owe me,” Kendal answered unsympathetically.
“Oh come on Kendal! Of all the crappy times to call in that favor, you had to pick tomorrow night?”
“Not my wedding, sugar. I didn’t pick the date; the bride and groom did.”
My breathing was coming in short, irregular bursts of frustration. I didn’t want to say yes. In fact, I had a very strong feeling I should say no, but Kendal, another professional psychic, was in a jam, and he had helped me out a few months ago when I’d had to take a few weeks off from my own business to recuperate from a tango I’d danced with a psychopath. He was right: I did owe him, big-tim
e, and owing people was not something I was particularly comfortable with.
The hard part of Kendal’s request was that my boyfriend was due back from his training with the FBI at Quantico, and tomorrow night was supposed to be our night—if you get my drift.
My boyfriend, Dutch, used to be a detective for the Royal Oak PD, until he’d been recruited by the FBI. We hadn’t dated very long; in fact, we had yet to consummate our relationship—hence why the following evening was such a big deal.
“Kendal, I’m begging you, isn’t there anyone else? Another psychic-in-training? Some guy off the street who could fake it?”
“There’s no one else, I swear. And this gig is really important to me. It’s for Ophelia Kapordelis, and her father, Andros is a very wealthy man. I could use the considerable cash they’re willing to pay us, and besides, you owe me.”
I pulled the cell phone away from my ear and stuck my tongue out at it. If he said that one more time I was going to crawl through the thing and tie his nose in a knot. I sighed audibly and gave it one more valiant try. “Can’t you just do it alone?”
“An entire wedding party? Abby, are you nuts? Even with the two of us, we’ll still be lucky to make it through thirty people. I promised the bride two psychics, she’s already paid for two psychics and she is going to get two psychics because you owe me!”
My eyebrows lowered to dangerous levels; damn it, he’d said it again. “But I don’t even know how to read tarot cards!” I shouted.
Kendal had informed me at the start of our conversation that the bride had insisted on using tarot card readers. Kendal had originally booked the event with a friend of his who also used tarot. Unfortunately, his friend had been wheeled into the OR for an emergency appendectomy an hour earlier, hence Kendal’s frantic phone call to me.
“I can teach you. Just meet me at my house an hour before the reception and we’ll go over it when we get to the reception hall. It’s pretty easy; you’ll probably pick it up right away. Besides, if you get stuck, you can just put down a card and say whatever comes to mind. You’re pretty much free-form as it is, aren’t you?”
I had pulled into my assigned parking space in the parking garage across the street from my office by now, and, sensing defeat, I let my head bang forward onto the steering wheel. I wasn’t going to get out of this.
I left his last question hanging, as my mind continued to look for possible ways out. My intuition was buzzing loudly in my head, and I knew that my “crew”—the spirit guides and assorted angels I typically consulted with on such matters—would totally back me up.
But the truth was that I did owe Kendal; he was in a jam and he needed me, and the job paid extremely well. He’d highballed his typical rate, and the purse was a grand apiece. My bank account could really use the cash. “Fine,” I said, closing my eyes.
“Terrific! Okay, the reception is downtown at the Plaza Casino. Why don’t you come over around six and I’ll drive us over there. Do you remember how to get to my house?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Good. Remember to dress up a little; this is a wealthy family, from what I understand.”
“Kendal?” I asked, my eyes still shut, and my mouth turned down into a hard frown.
“Yeah?”
“After this our little debt is paid in full, okay?”
“No problemo, sugar. See you tomorrow.”
I flipped the lid of my cell phone closed without wishing him good-bye. I was pissed at myself and didn’t trust that I wouldn’t take it out on him. I didn’t want to do the party, and I was mad at myself for caving.
Sitting up straight I flipped off the engine and grabbed my purse off the passenger seat. If only Kendal had gotten my voice mail, I probably could have dodged him until after the freaking wedding. But when my phone rang I’d been hoping it was Dutch, so I didn’t check the number on the caller ID before picking up. I got out of my car and walked grudgingly out of the parking structure and across the street toward my office building.
I live and work in a suburb of Detroit called Royal Oak. I love the town for its rather eclectic nature and the fact that it welcomes the odd, strange, bizarre, boring, common and obscure with equal portions of measured warmth. It is a unique town for that: No one is disenfranchised, from the homeless who seek shelter in the doorways of downtown, to the pierced, “fashion-rebellious” youth who crowd the various clubs and music stores, all the way up to those double-income, minivandriving, two-kids-and-a-Labrador-named-Buddy couples that I tend to look at while stifling a yawn. Everyone is welcome. It’s the perfect climate for a little freak like me.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Even though my profession smacks of surrealism, my life is sadly bland. I live in a small two-bedroom bungalow that’s been undergoing renovations for as long as I’ve owned it, I have a small miniature Dachshund named Eggy and a car with eighty thousand on the odometer, and a wild evening for me consists of watching the ball game with my boyfriend.
At least in the man department I’ve hit a ten on the wowser meter. My boyfriend—the FBI agent, or as I like to refer to him, “Mr. Sexy.”
The title fits Dutch perfectly. He’s tall, about six-two, with light blond hair and incredible midnight-blue eyes. His body would put Greek gods to shame, and his baritone voice has some sort of Pavlovian effect on me—I tend to salivate just talking to him.
He and I first met through one of those online dating services, and the fact that I’d struck a home run with him was apparent to me right away. He took a little longer to come around, although it had helped a bit that at the time I was being pursued by a serial killer—it brought out his protective side. His major obstacle had been warming to my profession—I mean, how many professional psychics have you dated?
Luckily he got over it, and we were on our way to advancing our relationship when a phone call came eight weeks ago informing Dutch that he had been accepted into the FBI, where he’s been training in Virginia ever since. He’s due back tomorrow morning, and I’ve been about as patient as a five-year-old on Christmas Eve.
Tomorrow night—Halloween—was our planned reunion, and we had intended to pass out candy to the kids in the neighborhood, then share a romantic candlelight dinner, and the rest of the evening get reacquainted. The French-maid outfit I’d purchased was just one of the colorful ideas I’d come up with for the reacquainting part.
Now I’d have to reschedule. Son of a bitch.
I crossed the street and walked quickly through the rain into the front lobby of my office building. I work in a large, tan brick office plaza, which is a magnificent example of architectural indecision. The building hogs one square block of downtown, squatting its bulky and irregular frame like a giant water buffalo. The structure houses boxy sections, spiked towers and sharply angled corners. It’s an architectural acid trip if ever there was one.
I took the stairs this morning to my second-floor suite. I’m over thirty now, and the prospect of being seen naked again for the first time in three years had been doing wonders to inspire me to take a little Jell-O out of my J-Lo.
Panting, I reached the second-floor landing and walked down the corridor to my office suite, number 222. It’s the one down the hallway and to the right, sandwiched between an accountant and a computer graphics firm. If you have a nose, you can just follow the aroma of the incense I burn on a regular basis. Nothing too frou frou . . . I prefer musky scents. So far no one’s complained, and I’ve taken that as silent acquiescence from my neighbors to continue the practice.
As I rounded the corner to my doorway I noticed a tall figure pacing in front of my door. The thundercloud over my head evaporated the moment I placed his face. “Milo!” I shouted, and ran toward him.
“Umph,” he said as I crashed into him with a big bear hug, squeezing him tightly. “Hey, Abby, I see you’ve gotten your strength back,” he said, laughing.
I backed away and beamed up at him. Milo Johnson used to be a detective with the Royal Oak Police Department,
and partners with Dutch until last August, when he’d played the lottery and won big-time. Of course, he’d had a little help from yours truly. He’d played the numbers I’d given him, a notion I was quick to point out. “Here to give me my cut?” I asked with a mischievous grin and an outstretched palm.
Milo’s a gorgeous man. Tall, black and elegant, he has fine facial bones and sumptuous lips that part into a fantastic smile when he’s amused. I was graced with the full grille as he looked at my outstretched palm and wheezed his contagious laugh, while reaching into the pocket of an expensive overcoat. “Actually, yes. After all, it wouldn’t be fair for me to keep all the money when your numbers did the winning.”
In my palm he placed a personal check colored with more zeros than I’d ever seen in my life. My humor faded immediately as I looked from him to the check with a mixture of excitement and shock. “Milo,” I said, a little breathless, “I was just kidding. I didn’t actually expect you to give me half.”
“Abby, are you for real? Take the money, girl—and run.”
I stood for a moment bouncing on the balls of my feet. There was close to two million dollars in my outstretched hand, and I noticed how my palms were suddenly sweating with the thought of all I could buy, and how much fun I could have. I wondered if my wealthy sister ever felt this way when she checked her bank balance. The experience was too surreal for me to take in, and I was just about to pocket the check when my intuitive phone began to vibrate on high.
For most people intuition is nothing more than a random thought making its way from the unconscious to the conscious, a commercial break during regular programming; but for me the experience is completely different. My intuition is more like a surround-sound infomercial—and I’m usually a captive audience. Having used it every day of my life for the past four years, I’m now ultrasensitive to the messages, tickling sensations, random thoughts, humming sounds, disconnectedness and physical pressures that affect my body.
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