Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  With a cry of rage, I grab a bottle of dish soap and a cleaning sponge. I get down on my hands and knees and begin to scrub and scrub. That is how Storm finds me.

  He takes a firm gentle hold of my arm. “Don’t,” he says.

  “Goddamn your crime scene to hell!” I scream at him.

  I want to hit him, shout at him until I am hoarse, but he takes me in his arms and holds me, both of us kneeling beside where Ms Celeste used to be. I sob, my chest heaving, but I don’t cry. There are no tears. He holds me until I am calm. Until the weight of my head resting on his shoulder no longer feels comforting and begins to feel embarrassing.

  I push him away. “Sorry about your crime scene,” I mutter.

  “It’s okay.”

  “She was my mother,” I say, feeling the need to explain. I hand him my birth certificate.

  He nods without looking at it. “I know.”

  I look at him sharply. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “She had been working here under the false surname, Celeste. We found out her real name yesterday from a document hidden in her belongings. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  I swipe at my face even though there are no tears on my cheeks. “I never knew until just now,” I say. “I don’t even know why I am… so angry. I never even knew her.”

  “I’m sorry you never got the chance to know her,” he says gently. “She must have wanted to know you. She invited you here.”

  “No,” I mutter bitterly. Then more hesitantly, “I don’t know. She said she thought DCK was going to kill me. And she was right.”

  “Did she say why she thought DCK wanted to kill you?” he says.

  “She said it was a… a personal vendetta.”

  I have not told him about my navelstone. My Godstone. She must have wanted to believe the stone was from God because what mother wants to believe her child is born cursed?

  DCK might be dead now, but Ms Celeste had begged me to keep my navelstone a secret. This means I cannot show him her letter. And I don’t want to. It was private, and it is mine to keep. I won’t allow it to be shoved in some evidence box somewhere.

  I frown at him. “And I already told you what Dr Carrington wanted to do with me.”

  “Diana,” he says softly, “DCK is not Dr Carrington.”

  “What?”

  “Dr Carrington was not the Devil Claw Killer,” he repeats, gently taking my hand.

  I snatch it away. “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s true.”

  “No it’s not! He killed the Coltons. He admitted it!”

  Storm nods. “Yes, he did. And he staged it to look like it was DCK. The American team has confirmed it. I finally managed to get hold of their forensic reports and crime scene photos and double-checked myself. I am absolutely sure it was not a DCK crime scene. He used a knife. DCK never uses a knife. And there are other inconsistencies. The signature was all wrong.”

  I shake my head. “And what about Ms Celeste, my mother? Did he stage this crime scene too?”

  “No,” he says grimly. “This scene is not staged. The signature is exact. This was DCK.”

  I can’t believe it. DCK is still alive. DCK is still free.

  “Who is he?” I demand.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know? It’s your goddamn job to know!” I want to scream and curse at him. I want to tell him this is his fault.

  “Caroline,” I say suddenly. “It has to be Caroline.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s not her. I would know.”

  “Why shouldn’t DCK be a woman?” I snap. “Just because you and Caroline are all cozy with each other. You’re not impartial. She clicks her fingers and you come running…”

  “I did not go running,” he says firmly.

  “Then what did she want on the night of the ball?” I demand. “And don’t you dare tell me it was a business matter! You’re a cop! And she’s a vicious scheming horrid woman!”

  “It was a business matter.” He hesitates, then adds, “Just between us… Caroline had been worried I came to the castle to investigate some death threat letters that Xander had received. She insisted it was a private matter, not a police matter.”

  “She probably sent them herself!” I snap viciously.

  To my surprise he nods his head. “She didn’t admit it, but I suspected as much.” He sees the look on my face and quickly adds, “But she is not DCK. I’ve been investigating DCK for years. Believe me, if it was her I would know.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. Suddenly there is an outraged yowl from nearby that makes me jump. I look behind me to see a rattling box near the doorway. It is a pet carrier. Storm goes over to open it. A white fur-ball streaks out, swiping Storm’s hand as she goes.

  “Damned cat,” he says.

  “Beastie!” I cry out as she rubs against my ankles. I pick her up, stunned to see my grumpy-faced little AngelBeast. My cute little killer monster. She looks thoroughly fed up, but she purrs when I tickle her under her chin.

  “Beastie sounds about right,” Storm mutters under his breath.

  I gape at him. “Where did you find her?”

  “One of the American agents mentioned a cat. I thought you would want her.”

  “And you had her shipped here for me?” His thoughtfulness makes my heart quiver a little. He got her for me right when I needed her most. I feel that hot sting of tears behind my eyes again. I look away from him quickly before I start crying.

  He comes to stand beside me and tentatively attempts to stroke Beastie, who hisses and swipes him with her claws.

  “Have you thought about what you are going to do next?” he says.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any skills, but I guess I will think of something.”

  “Our unit chief was impressed at the accuracy of your visions,” Storm says. “That’s a valuable ability.”

  “Some use that was. It all happened anyway.”

  “It didn’t happen,” he says gently. “You saved us.”

  I bite my lip. This is true. For once my visions did not lead to death. I wonder if this means death isn’t inevitable. If I can change what I see?

  “You described exactly what would happen to me and Xander before the incidents took place,” he says.

  “But I was wrong about thinking you were being strangled in the visions. I should have known it was a succubus’s kiss.”

  “Even so, the fact that you clearly saw it, and saw Xander being shot, is remarkable.”

  “I never saw Ms Celeste’s death. Or Leo being shot. Or that Lila and Freddie would be involved. I never saw enough to recognize the Coltons would be stabbed. I should have seen it all.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself. Psychic visions are rarely more than fleeting hints, especially when it is people close to the psychic. You have a rare gift. With experience and patience, I think you could learn to identify the helpful leads in what you do see.”

  “Leads?”

  “The Agency is wary of psychics, given the unpredictability of their gifts. But I think you could be an asset. I was able to put forward a case on your behalf.”

  My heartbeat speeds up. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m asking if you want to come and work for us.”

  Words escape me. What is he talking about? Me, a psychic investigator? It is not something I have ever thought I would be. And yet… And yet this is my chance to be able to do something useful with my visions. To not just feel helpless when they come. To change fate.

  My heart is beating super-fast. And I can help Storm hunt down DCK. I could get justice for Ms Celeste. He wants me to help him. No one has ever shown such faith in me.

  “Well?” he says.

  I throw my arms around him in response. He lets me hug him and laughs when Beastie yowls to show her displeasure. Then he eases me away from him. He looks serious. “It is difficult work. Not for everyone. We investigate murders and bring killers to
justice.”

  Killers, says the little voice, unfurling in my head. Exacting almighty vengeance. Oh, I like the sound of that.

  Justice, I tell her.

  Justice. Bloodthirsty vengeance, she says. What’s the difference?

  I feel a little quiver inside at the thought. I don’t know whether it is her desire or my horror.

  “Are you in?” Storm says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You’ll be part of our team. Me, Leo and Remi.” He makes them sound like a family.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “We’ll do our best to keep you safe but this job will put you in harm’s way. You need to be aware of that.”

  Harm’s way, the little voice purrs in delight. Such excitement. I like the sound of that.

  I ignore her. I’ve been in harm’s way my whole life. This time at least I get to choose. “I can deal with that.”

  “And I would be your boss. Just your boss.”

  Ah. I notice the slight edge in his voice. I know what it means. He is making it clear that there is no place for me in his life outside of work. But he is also offering me something greater — a purpose, and somewhere to belong.

  Gently dropping Beastie, I throw my arms around Storm. “I understand. My answer is yes.”

  He clears his throat and tries to step back. “Just your boss,” he says again.

  I hold on tightly, knowing I never want to let go. “Sure thing, boss. Sure thing.”

  The End

  Copycat Killer

  Psychic For Hire Series

  Book 2

  by HERMIONE STARK

  Copycat Killer

  By HERMIONE STARK

  Killers haunt her dreams, and there’s not a darn thing she can do about it.

  After messing up a case badly, Diana Bellona’s days of working as a psychic for the special Agency that hunts killers of the monstrous variety are over. These days she’s a lowly waitress struggling to pay for her next meal. And she’s still dreaming of death.

  This time it’s the brutal double-homicide of a celebrity succubus and her lover. The press say that the monster who murdered Diana’s mother, the notorious Devil Claw Killer, is on the hunt again — but Diana’s dreams insist the suspect is a copycat. Chasing him brings her face-to-face with her former boss, Special Agent Constantine Storm, who warns her to stay out of his way. The trouble is that Storm’s chasing the wrong guy, and Diana was never one to stay out of Storm’s way.

  If she catches this killer she’ll fix her track record and prove Storm wrong. Hell, she might even make her rent. But in a world of magic and power, wizards and otherkind, are her dreams and her wits going to be enough?

  Note: The events of this book take place two years after Angel Of Death (Psychic for Hire Book 1.)

  Note: The events of this book take place two years after Angel Of Death (Psychic for Hire Book 1.)

  Chapter 1

  DIANA

  I arrive at the crime scene to find several police cars and TV crews outside the large mansion. An ambulance too, which doesn’t bode well. The lawn in front of the house has been fenced off to stop reporters from trespassing. This is St John’s Wood, London, a neighborhood that is home to some of the world’s wealthiest celebrities. Gruesome crimes are not supposed to happen here.

  It seems even the rich are not averse to gossip because a crowd of neighbors has gathered, eager to find out what is going on. A few may even be worried that their kid might be next.

  I am late. I got the text message from my new boss two hours ago, telling me to meet him and his team here. I scan the crowd but cannot see any of them. Special Agent Constantine Storm is one of the best investigators at the Agency of Otherkind Investigations. That he hired me, an unproven psychic, still boggles my mind.

  I doubt he will be impressed with my tardiness. In my eagerness for my first case I had rushed to get here, but I’m still not used to London’s public transport systems and I got lost. Not the best impression to make on my first day on the job.

  On the lawn in front of the house a small stage is being set up. It acts like a magnet to the news crews and reporters who are jostling for prime positions near the front.

  I finally spot Storm’s tall figure near the podium, a breeze playing in his midnight hair, looking so darn fine in his smart suit that it should be illegal for him to wear it. Annoyingly, my heart leaps at the sight. When my phone beeped after receiving his message this morning, I didn’t know if I was more nervous about seeing him again or about this being my first case.

  I raise my hand to wave in hopes of catching his attention. He sees me and nods in acknowledgment. The slightest tilt at the corner of his lips lets me know that he’s not mad that I’m late. I feel instant relief. I try not to beam at him as he jerks his head a fraction towards the side of the stage, letting me know he wants me to wait for him there. I make my way through the crowd towards it.

  Storm goes back to talking to a man whose face I recognize from the newspapers, James Fenway, the victim’s uncle. The recent family tragedy has not removed any of his Hollywood shine. In his mid-forties, he is handsome in a well-groomed kind of way. Not a patch on Storm though, and not just because Storm is younger by nearly a couple of decades. Bet Fenway doesn’t like that.

  Even from my position at the outermost edges of the crowd I can tell that Storm is displeased with whatever James Fenway is saying. Fenway is clearly used to getting his own way. He looks like he’s about to push Storm aside, but at the last moment he changes his mind. Storm has the quiet grace of a big cat; lethal even in repose. He is not the kind of guy anyone feels comfortable pushing around, not even one of Hollywood’s most famous directors.

  Storm does not look happy as Fenway takes his place at the podium. Fenway clears his voice a couple of times as if to test the microphone. The sound immediately gathers the attention of the crowd of waiting reporters, who all go silent in anticipation.

  Fenway swallows hard, as if struggling to find the words he wants to say. He looks every inch the grieving uncle. He puts his arm around the pretty young woman standing beside him, urging her forward towards the microphone. She refuses to move, staying stiffly where she is, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, hugging herself as if to fend off the accusatory glares of the gathered crowd.

  Her eyes are fixed on the ground and she is determinedly not looking at the cameras. She is shaking. I can see it from here. The stiff set of her jaw looks angry. The cameras are loving it. They are trained as much on her as they are on him.

  She is Eliza Fenway, the victim’s older sister. I have seen her on the television. She is tall, blond and slender, but the stunning looks of her tragic younger sister make her seem entirely ordinary.

  This story has been hot news all week since sixteen-year-old Jennifer Fenway first went missing. Not just because her uncle and guardian James Fenway is Hollywood royalty, but also because young Jennifer was a succubus and strikingly beautiful. That strawberry blond hair, that translucent skin, the smattering of freckles that betrayed her youth.

  All week long the newspapers had splashed their covers with photos of her that had tugged at the nation’s heart strings. And then two days ago the news had broken that Eliza Fenway had been seen having a blazing row with her younger sister earlier in the day that Jennifer had gone missing. One of Jennifer’s friends had gossiped to the press that young Jennifer had been having a secret affair with older sister Eliza’s boyfriend, one Mustafa Salehi, known as Mo to his friends.

  Poor Jennifer Fenway. Until this morning I had still been hoping she would come home of her own accord and, like sixteen year olds everywhere, be incredulous at all the fuss that had been made over her.

  Mustafa Salehi is currently in Agency custody. Early this morning he had found Jennifer’s body in her garden shed, or so he claimed. He had called the police, who had promptly notified the Agency of Otherkind Investigations, who had jurisdiction since the victim was a succubus. The case being so high-profil
e, the chief had assigned it to his best team, led by Special Agent Storm.

  It is weird to think of myself as part of any ‘best team’. Storm offered me the job just two weeks ago when I had inadvertently saved the life of Prince Xander Daxx, an angelus from Otherworld who is engaged to marry Princess Caroline of England. His murder would have been a political inter-world disaster, not to mention a reputational disaster for the Agency given that their best agents had been on site and undercover at the engagement party.