Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  I sit on the side walk and call Luca. He answers immediately.

  “Diana!” he says cheerily in his big bass voice with a hint of a lilting accent. He always sounds happy to hear from me. This time it fails to cheer me up.

  “Hi Luca,” I say, my voice trembling with my effort to control it. I hate begging. I hate that Luca will immediately know that I am desperate. “Erm, do you need an extra hand at the restaurant today at all? I mean maybe just a few extra hours before my evening shift tonight?”

  He pauses. I can tell that he doesn’t. “Sure, sure,” he says jovially. “Come in a couple of hours. I can find something for you.”

  I babble a thanks. There are tears in my eyes when I hang up. Thank heaven for people like Luca.

  I take a deep steadying breath. I am not pathetic. I refuse to be. I’ll get by. Enough is finally enough. I’ll find a better job than my catering one and I’ll tell Smithers to stuff it. All is not lost. If I get desperate maybe I can ask Luca for a small advance on my next paycheck. I’ll hate doing it, but I’ll work extra hard, and I’ll pay back his kindness someday. This thought calms me.

  I am famished, but I ignore my hunger pangs. I have work to do. For two years I have been stagnating, fighting the little voice in my head every time she told me to do something about my dreams. Some nights fighting her to the point of mental exhaustion.

  I had been so afraid that I would make a big mess of things again, and where has it got me? Nowhere. Seeing Storm yesterday was like a reality bomb going off. It is an unpleasant shock to see myself through his eyes. I have been sliding downhill for two years, heading nowhere good.

  “Excuse me,” I ask a man who is passing by. “Do you know if there is a library near here?”

  He smiles at me appreciatively. “American?” he asks.

  I nod, unsmiling. All I want is some directions.

  “Are you new to the area?” he says. “Do you need someone to show you around?”

  The man is middle-aged and balding. Old enough to be my father. The way his eyes are weighing me up creep me out.

  “No,” I mutter, and hurry away.

  I make sure that the next few people that I approach are women, until I find one who knows where the local library is. A long walk gets me there.

  The friendly-faced librarian at the desk smiles at my American accent when I ask her where to find information about the Agency of Otherkind Investigations. She makes me repeat my question. Then she looks at me like I must be confused.

  “We don’t have one of those here,” she says.

  “They’re like police who investigate crimes that affect the otherkind community?” I clarify.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she says. She is beginning to look suspiciously at me. “Why don’t you go and enquire at the local police station?”

  “Isn’t there a reference section here about otherkind?”

  “Not at this library,” she says disapprovingly.

  “Maybe I can search for it on the Internet?”

  Sniffing, she directs me to a bank of computers.

  Fifteen minutes of google searching later I still have not found what I am looking for. I am surprised. I had not thought it would be so difficult. No amount of searching on Constantine Storm tells me anything about his work. Same for Remi and Leo. In fact, there is no sign of Remi on the internet at all. Leo, it turns out, has led a rather interesting life, but I merely scan it, not finding what I am looking for.

  I had been fired from the Agency before my scheduled induction, which means I never even got to go into the office. I have no idea where it is. And it seems that you cannot just go on the Internet and look up the phone number for the Agency of Otherkind Investigations. I wanted to leave an anonymous tip, but the only tip line is one for local human police. I have a feeling they would filter out my call rather than pass it on to the Agency.

  I have to look through numerous forums and chat threads before finally I find a reference to a place in Westminster. I use a map website to find a photo. It is a grand enormous building, the sort that you would get arrested for even trying to walk into without permission.

  I scribble the address down in my notebook. No phone number damn it. It looks like an anonymous tip is going to be out of the question. And after my last experience with the Agency, I doubt they will take my word about my dream.

  I sigh. I need more believable information. I close my eyes, walking my way through the dream. I know the door number of the house was 23. That part was easy. I saw it when the killer knocked on the door. But where was it?

  I had been so sure from the look of the houses in the street that it had been in London somewhere. A rich neighborhood, with houses far larger than where I lived. It had been leafy and green. There had been a front garden. Like in a suburb.

  Suddenly a road sign flashes in my mind. The killer had seen it on the way to the house. Excited, I type it into the map. My heart leaps when the address comes up. It is in St John’s Wood, London.

  A quickening of my heart beat tells me that this has to be the right place, even before the street view photo confirms it. The house in the photograph is the one I saw in my dreams. And St John’s Wood is a walkable distance from my apartment.

  Feeling excited I stare at the house in the photo. Right now I have to get home and get ready for a shift at the restaurant. But I am free during the daytime tomorrow. I can walk by in the morning. The occupants might be home having a lazy Sunday breakfast. What harm would it do to knock on the door? And if I chicken out, I can just leave a note. I can actually save them!

  You can be a hero, says the little voice snidely. If they believe you.

  Chapter 5

  ST JOHN’S WOOD

  It is early Sunday morning, not yet dawn, when a car pulls up outside a large house in St John’s Wood, North West London. The driver’s side window rolls down and the driver, Jared Everett, Hollywood hunk, presses a button on his key fob impatiently, and waits for the driveway gate to slide open.

  “Bloody England,” he mutters under his breath.

  Jared is American, and finds everything in England too slow for his liking. He has been stuck here for eight years now, filming a series of vampire-hunter movies set in London that have made him famous. He had been grateful for it then, but now he is convinced he should never have taken the part.

  Jared is a California boy, and while he loves the fame London has brought him, he does not consider life away from the sunshine and the waves to be much worth living. These days the gold of his skin and the fair streaks in his tussled hair are the product of a salon rather than a gift from the sun.

  A demon hunter TV show – with stakes and axes and all – is not what Jared wants to be doing with his life, especially after his recent trip to Ireland where one of his director buddies is filming an epic historical saga. The experience has left Jared’s own work feeling trite. Aged thirty-five, he has begun to feel like life is running away from him. He wants to be the lead in a movie. Something more mature, more solemn. Damn it — more Oscar worthy!

  Jared is also not happy about having had to drive to North London this morning. Greenery and a garden be damned. He misses his modern apartment in Chelsea, but Lynesse had insisted on St John’s Wood.

  The only thing that had made London bearable had been meeting Lynesse. Jared had met succubae before of course. You couldn’t avoid them in Hollywood, but he’d never actually tried one before Lynesse. And once he had had her, he’d been hooked.

  Five weeks ago he had put a big fat diamond on Lynesse’s finger and flaunted her in front of the world’s media. That had been a good time.

  The gate finally crawls open and Jared drives his cherry-red Maserati up the driveway and parks up near the front doors to the house. He does not notice that none of the lights within are switched on. It is Kris Caprio, Jared’s best friend and long-suffering assistant, who says, “Lynesse must be out.”

  “Nah,” says Jared, confident that Lynesse must be in
.

  His angel Lynesse, with her gleaming mahogany hair and her crystal blue eyes and her youthful vigor. Lynesse is a night owl. She probably hasn’t even gone to bed yet. She knew exactly when he would be getting back from Ireland, and despite the fight they’d had before he had left over a week ago, he is confident that she will be waiting for him, all dressed up in sexy lingerie on his bed. Heck, she might even be wearing nothing.

  The thought excites Jared. Lynesse liked to do that sometimes. Flaunt herself until he begged before she let him near her. Suddenly Jared can’t wait to see her.

  “You should have let her come with us,” says Kris.

  Jared flashes Kris an impatient look. It has always chafed at him that Kris is nearer Lynesse’s age than he is. Kris knows full well why Jared had left Lynesse behind. He’d even liked that it had made Lynesse mad.

  She’d called him several times a day while he’d been away. On her call three days ago she’d been in a bad mood and ranted about firing the housekeeper. It had been the last thing he had wanted to think about. They’d ended up arguing. That’s what he got for wanting to marry a hot-blooded succubus. No doubt she’s been stewing since then. Jared expects she will have cooled off by now though.

  Kris opens the trunk of the car and hauls out two large suitcases and a couple of holdalls. He lugs them up the stairs towards the front entrance, followed lazily by Jared who is tossing his keys in the air and catching them.

  “Listen,” says Jared. “Can you check the usual websites? Make sure there’s nothing on them to make Lynesse mad?”

  “Already done,” says Kris.

  “Do it again.”

  Kris scowls.

  “Just do it,” says Jared.

  Kris nods, but he has no intention of doing it. There is no point. And Jared is stupid for treating Lynesse like a fool. He deserves what is coming to him. Kris neatly lines up all the bags outside the front entrance and holds up his hand to catch the car keys Jared tosses at him. Kris busies himself parking the Maserati in the garage, letting Jared head into the house first.

  Jared bounces in, whistling. He notes that Lynesse has already changed his furniture around and added a whole bunch of her gaudy art that he’s going to have to tell her to take down. But not yet. He wants to keep her sweet tonight. From the ground floor lounge he shouts for her, calling out her name.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he says, laughing at the phrase. Lynesse will lap up the picture of domestic bliss it paints.

  He tosses his jacket onto the sofa, and lazily makes his way towards the stairs. A first he thinks the lump at the base of the stairs is one of his holdalls. Then he remembers Kris hasn’t brought them in yet. Jared switches on a lamp. What the thing is becomes clear. It is a man. A god-damned man is lying at the foot of his stairs!

  Jared can tell in an instant that the guy is dead, even before he fully registers the red ruined hole at the back of the guy’s head.

  “Fuck,” Jared says.

  He leaps over the guy and races up the stairs. He throws open the master bedroom door. Lynesse is on the bed, lying among the rumpled blood-sodden sheets. His Lynesse.

  Jared screams a high pitched sound that he never knew he was capable of making. On the wall behind him is a massive red Devil Claw pawprint, the dripping blood now dry.

  Chapter 6

  DIANA

  I wake up at dawn with the edges of the nightmare still clawing at my mind. The poor guy dying at the foot of the stairs. The woman screaming as she watched. The repulsive taint of how it made me feel to see it through the eyes of the killer is still in my body. It felt more real than ever. I throw open my door of my studio apartment and race down a flight of stairs to the shared toilets to throw up.

  I have been having dreams like this for as long as I can remember. You would think I would be used to it by now. But today is different. Today I am going to do something about it. In a few hours I will have gone to visit that house and stop it from happening. Tomorrow I should wake up nightmare free.

  I go back up to my room to shower, and find Beastie prowling just inside my door. I pour some food into her bowl before stepping into my cubicle and lathering up. I am immensely grateful to have a shower in my room. There are shared ones near the toilets that other residents use, but the doors locks are flimsy. The thought of anyone accidentally barging in as I was changing and seeing my navelstone would keep me up at night.

  Plus showering in my room minimizes my chances of bumping into my neighbors. Like the young guy across the hall who looks like he is working up the courage to ask me out every time I accidentally make eye contact. Or the two girls my age from downstairs who came knocking on my door really late last night, asking me if I wanted to go out for a drink. It is the third time I have said no, despite the little voice’s urgings for me to live a little. I have a feeling they won’t ask again.

  I fix myself some bargain tinned chick peas in my room, milk and cereal now being well out of my budget. AngelBeastie sniffs snobbishly at her dry kibbles. She glowers at me as she nibbles. I know how she feels.

  I munch my flavorless mouthful and open my wardrobe to contemplate my clothes. Once upon a time all of this had felt like a luxury. Being able to eat breakfast, being able to choose what to wear from my own selection of clothes that I was given at the Royal Engagement Gala. But for so long now I have been unable to take any joy in life’s small pleasures.

  I nudge AngelBeastie with my toe. “What should I wear to visit a couple of rich happy strangers to deliver the terrible news that someone will attempt to murder them in the near future?” I ask her.

  She sniffs my toe as if she is considering eating it.

  My selection of clothes is more suited to extravagant parties than to everyday life, given where they came from. I have not touched most of them in years. I find a smart pair of tailored pants and a lace-edged cream blouse. They are far too pretty for normal work wear, but perfect for today’s purposes. Thank goodness for Xander’s generosity. I could never have afforded these otherwise.

  Before I leave, I pack a bag of nuts I had snitched from work that had been destined for the garbage. I might be in for a long wait. If the couple are not home I intend to hang around. It is better to speak to them in person no matter how much I dislike this thought. I should avoid leaving a note. They might not even see it.

  Beastie is now tapping her claw tips on my door. It is a warning tap. The clever thing knows not to scratch, but that doesn’t mean she won’t do it if I keep her waiting much longer.

  “One moment, Beastie,” I murmur. “I’m nearly ready.”

  Beastie hasn’t bothered to eat much of her meal. On my way back home I will have to browse some corner shops for decent cat food. I have figured out that if I find anything that is near its Use-By date, some of the smaller stores will sell it to me for pennies. I don’t want Beastie to starve herself because of her food snobbery.

  Suddenly filled with nervous energy, I scoop Beastie into my large satchel and bounce out of the apartment. I am determined to complete my task today. Heck, perhaps there will even be a reward in it, I think hopefully.

  You wish, says the little voice. Rich people are the meanest people.

  “You’re such a cynic,” I murmur under my breath as I run lightly down the stairs.

  I let Beastie loose in a little square park not far from my house and she happily darts away. I have no idea what she gets up to, but she sure is in a satisfied mood whenever I come back to pick her up. I always find her waiting for me, as if she has a sixth sense about when I’ll be back.

  My first stop is the corner shop near the park. I pop in out of habit, wanting to check today’s news headlines. Humming, I check out all the dates on the canned produce and the pouches of cat food. Seeing one likely tin, I put it right at the back of the other tins, intending to come back for it later. Then I head to the newspaper and magazine shelf.

  The images dominating the front pages of the papers stop me in my tracks. It is the smili
ng face of a gorgeous young woman. The same woman from my dreams.

  ‘DCK strikes again!’ screams the headline. ‘Jared Everett Fiancée Murdered!’

  Gasping, I snatch up the paper. No wonder I kept having the dream. Feeling sickened, I read the column. Her name is Lynesse Jones. She was found dead early this morning. She is the new fiancée of Hollywood star Jared Everett.

  The newspaper rustles as my hands shake. I can’t believe it. I am too late. And it was DCK who killed her. DCK.

  I want to scream. I should have been there. I should have gone to their house yesterday to warn them. Why did I wait? Why didn’t I do something?

  Not everything is your fault, snaps the little voice. How arrogant of you to even think so.