Psychic for Hire Series Box Set

by Hermione Stark

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “The Grey Queen? You can’t be serious. She’s a myth. If you are going to tell me a story, at least make it a believable one.”

  It now it is his turn to huff. “People’s refusal to believe a thing doesn’t make it not real. The Queen of the Fae is no myth. That symbol in your hand is her symbol. It marks the girl your friend was insistent on running off with as her property. Woe betide he who steals a drop of water from the Grey Queen, let alone a water sprite.”

  “So what are you saying? That Raif was murdered by the Grey Queen?”

  “Nonsense. The Grey Queen doesn’t need to murder people. Leaving behind a crime scene is clumsy. I imagine if she wanted a thing done, one would never know it had been done. If I had to guess I would say the fae hadn't caught up with your friend yet. Some other person has murdered him.”

  “Who?” I ask eagerly. His mind seems to be buzzing away, reaching some sort of conclusion.

  He looks pained. “Your friend was very persuasive and at the end of his tether. I confess I may have referred him to a mage who may know a sorcerer, because of course only a sorcerer would even be able to attempt to undo a lock belonging to the Grey Queen. Nobody else would dare.”

  He holds up his hand before I can interrupt. “If you plan to go after a sorcerer,” he says, “I’ll tell you now that you’ll never find him, and you’ll probably be barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Because?” I nudge him impatiently.

  “Because you said your friend already had the key, and to get a sorcerer to make that particular key would cost a fortune. And your friend seemed smart enough to know he’d need some running away money too. So if I were you, it makes more sense to look at where all that money came from. Because we are talking a small fortune, possibly a large one, which your friend did not have.”

  “How do you know he didn’t have it?”

  “Because of his despair when I told him how much it may cost. He reassured me that he could liquidate some business assets, perhaps properties. It would have been fruitless for me to pass on the name of my contact otherwise.”

  I shake my head. “This all sounds like an unbelievable story. Raif seemed so sensible. And smart. Why would he do something this mad?”

  He sighs deeply. “That is ever the question. Unfortunately people’s hope and madness are what keep me in business. The things people will risk for their child. It almost makes me feel lucky to not have one.”

  My mouth drops open. People would do anything for their kids. Including trying to screw over the Queen of the Fae apparently. Zarina is Raif’s kid.

  Chapter 15

  DIANA

  I head from Grimshaw’s straight to work my usual Tuesday evening shift at Luca’s. Once that is done it is past midnight by the time I am finally trudging towards home, yawning and ready to collapse into bed. I stop off at the little park near my apartment and find AngelBeastie waiting for me. She purrs as I scoop her up and deposit her into my satchel.

  I talk to her as I walk. “Gosh, Beastie. Wish I had your life. I bet you’ve never been as tired as I feel right now.”

  I can hear her purring contentedly. My satchel is vibrating. The feeling makes me giggle. “I hope you caught something tasty for your dinner, because all you’re getting tonight from me is kibbles again I’m afraid”

  I reach into my bag to tickle her head. “But as soon as I get this consultancy paycheck, which I’m absolutely definitely totally going to get, I’m going to buy you a huge package of special treats and some juicy cat food with real meat in delicious jelly that all the adverts say you’re going to love. Or maybe I’ll get you some real fish. Some salmon so fresh that you’ll think you’re in heaven. Would you like that? Hmm?”

  I stop talking to her as I get out my key to let myself into my building. Chatting with my bag is going to make my neighbors think I’m mad. Clutching my satchel securely against my chest, I jog up the stairs, eager to fall into bed, and let myself into my apartment.

  The first thing I see is the envelope that someone has slipped beneath my door.

  The sight of it laying not-quite-innocently on my carpet makes my stomach flip-flop. It is only Tuesday night. Rent isn’t due until Thursday night. Which means I have a whole day and a half to solve this case. So why is my landlady already sending me a message? My abdomen clenches. Smithers can’t have called her, can he? How the hell does he even know who my landlady is?

  I chew my lip as I rip open the envelope. Inside is a gift card with an apple tree on front. The sharp scent of burnt apple rises from it and then disperses so quickly that I am not sure if it was real or not. Inside is a message.

  Dear Diana,

  What does a girl deserve who sticks her nose where it’s not wanted? How to make such a girl suffer? Oh, I know, I’ll destroy the thing you care about most. Like you’ve destroyed mine.

  Still think you can save it? Here’s a clue. Catch me if you can.

  Beneath the words is stuck a slim golden coin with a woman’s face on it. She is smiling. A single drop of red fluid, now dry, is dripping from beneath the coin. I unstick the coin to look at the other side and find the same face, this time not smiling. And where the coin had been is a tiny red clawed pawprint, the drop of blood coming from it.

  The shock of finding it here in my home hits me like a hammer. My fist clenches as I stare at it, almost crumpling up the card before I make myself stop. This is evidence. I can’t destroy it. I drop the card and the envelope it had come in onto my bed. I get a plastic bag out of a drawer in my kitchenette and carefully put everything inside it. I should take this to Storm. He would know what to do with it.

  And yet I can’t take it to Storm. Not until I’ve figured out what the hell it is. Because one thing is for sure. The real Devil Claw Killer would never give me a warning that he knew where I lived. This has to be from the copycat.

  I pace up and down my room, reading the note inside the card over and over again through the plastic bag. One line stands out. “Like you’ve destroyed mine.” This person thinks I have destroyed a thing they care about. How could I have possibly done that? Is it because of Lynesse? Is there really a link between me and her?

  What the hell is this? Why send it to me? Why now? There must be a reason.

  AngelBeastie makes a little yowling noise inside my satchel, making me jump. Feeling a little guilty, I quickly let her out. She nips my hand to show her displeasure, and then leaps onto my bed, curling up quite comfortably, completely unaffected by my agitated state of mind. At least one of us feels comfortable right now.

  I pour her some kibbles and fresh water, in case she feels like eating something later. And then I resume my pacing.

  Gosh, I’m so tired. If only my head was clearer. The only name that comes into my mind is Beatrice Grictor. But the damn woman has the Ambassador for an alibi. I try to think who else might have sent me the envelope, but my mind keeps insisting that it is Beatrice. But Storm would say that I was being irrational, especially as I can’t answer why she would send it to me.

  Because you trespassed on her private property, says the little voice. She pretended she was okay about it, but clearly she is furious.

  I shake my head. Somehow I cannot imagine perfect pristine Beatrice Grictor in her kitten heels creeping up the stairs to my apartment to slide this under the door. How would she even know where I live?

  You found out where she lives, says the little voice. Why shouldn’t she be able to find out where you live? And do you really think that a woman you believe capable of murder isn’t capable of leaving you a threatening note?

  But the problem is Storm already thinks that I am hung up on Beatrice Grictor for no reason. Even I can’t fully explain why I feel the way I do about her. Something about her has got to my back up right from the start, and it isn’t just the way she was flirting with Storm.

  Gosh you’re slow, says the little voice. In the morgue waiting room when you were talking to Raif Silverstone’s ghost, w
hat did Beatrice Grictor do?

  “She… She didn’t do anything.”

  Exactly.

  “She didn't react. She wasn't surprised!”

  My mouth drops open. She’s right! Beatrice Grictor didn’t react at all when I started talking to Raif! She should have at least looked at me weirdly if I had been talking to thin air, and as far as she is concerned that is exactly what I had been doing. And then she had made that fuss about the water leak. What if she had broken that tap on purpose to stop me from talking to Raif?

  I slap my hand against my forehead. That is exactly what she must have done. She broke the tap on purpose and I fell for it. And her ruse worked, because next thing I knew Raif was gone.

  Stunned by this epiphany, I sink into the chair beside my little table. I can’t believe I was such a fool. Beatrice Grictor is as dodgy as they come. A manipulative sneak. And nobody else can see it. I stare the coin in the little plastic bag. So what does the coin mean? What is she going to do next? If she really is a killer, then she is capable of anything.

  I realize that my leg is tapping on the ground with irritated anxiety. I feel full of pent-up energy and anger towards Beatrice. She sent me this letter because she wanted me to feel this way. She wanted me to know how helpless I am. She was so confident that I wouldn’t catch her. The arrogance of the woman. And Storm has his sights set on a different direction, and she must know that too. I bet she feels really smug right now.

  Either she wants to torment me, or this is a trick to distract me and throw me off the scent. The worst thing is not knowing if this is a real threat, or if it is just a game she is playing.

  She’s made this personal. She hates me. I am sure of it. But why?

  How can I possibly take this to Storm when I have no idea what it is? What kind of psychic am I?

  And what is this thing that is supposed to mean most to me in the world? My eyes go to AngelBeastie curled up on my duvet. AngelBeastie is the only thing I have in the world.

  I hurry to my door to double check the lock. I wedge the back of my other chair up against the handle. It’s a stupid measure, because I know she is unlikely to come back right now. I should be worrying about when I’m out. It’s not exactly like the lock on this door is secure. She could get into my room easily. She could poison Beastie’s food. She could attack her with an axe. The thought makes me feel sick.

  What has the coin got to do with AngelBeastie anyway? Is the coin another ruse to throw me off the scent? Or a clever clue I’ll regret not guessing the meaning of?

  I return to my table and carefully remove the gold coin from the plastic bag. It is heavy as real gold. Too expensive to not be a real clue. I place it onto the table top and put the tip of my finger onto one small edge, hoping I am not smearing any fingerprints. But touching it gives me nothing. It just feels like a cold gold coin.

  I sit down in the chair and take several long deep breaths, holding each breath for as long as I possibly can before taking the next one. I’m trying to calm myself down and clear my mind. I can’t get anything from the coin if my mind is full of other worries.

  I close my eyes and try to focus on nothing but the feeling of my breath coming slowly into my lungs and then slowly back out again. After a while I put my finger on the coin again, and keeping my eyes closed I picture the coin inside my head. I imagine the smiling face of the woman. I imagine that she wants to tell me the truth. I make my mind blank with only the coin and the woman in it. I will with all my being for the truth I need to come to me. Nothing comes.

  I pace the room some more. Damn my visions that won’t come when I need them. And damn Beatrice Grictor with her uptilted nose and her soft breathy voice and her prim little blouses buttoned all the way to her neck. Beatrice Grictor who said that she and Raif moved their offices into her house so that they could put more money towards her charity. How the hell am I supposed to find out if that is true or not? I don’t even know where to start.

  As I pace I fume about Beatrice. Every once in a while I returned to sit at my desk and touch the coin to give it a chance to tell me something. Nothing less than solid evidence will do for Storm. If only the coin would speak to me. But I’m agitated. Too agitated to be able to hear it. And I’m so tired. My mind is fuzzy. I put my head down on the table to rest it, and close my eyes.

  Sometime later I am aware that I am asleep, and yet I am also aware that my cheek is pressed to the surface of the coin. And that it shouldn’t be, because I am destroying any fingerprints. And yet I can’t move my head and I can’t open my eyes because I am asleep. And I am dreaming.

  A little boy with black shiny hair and black shiny eyes with a wedge of brilliant green in the left one is bouncing up and down. I smile, knowing it is Storm. Storm as a little boy no older than five, and he is delightful.

  He is with his mother in a place that I know must be their home, and I can smell something delicious. Little Storm can smell it too. He is begging his mother for a treat, and she is shaking her head and laughing. But that doesn’t stop him begging. She picks him up and twirls him around and he laughs too.

  On a table nearby are freshly baked little lemon cakes, so many of them, arranged artfully as if awaiting guests. Their aroma is mouthwatering. Storm reaches for one, but his mother shakes her head, still laughing.

  “It’s mine!” he says. “You know it’s mine.”

  “Later,” she says.

  “Heads or heads,” he says. “If she smiles, I can have it now!”

  His mom tweaks his nose, but she agrees. She flips a golden coin, and it lands in the palm of her hand. The lady of the coin is smiling. Little Storm cackles in glee, and he snatches up a lemon cake, the only one with a bright red cherry on top. The one that his mother baked especially for him.

  I wake up from the dream smiling. It takes a while for reality to catch up with me and for the smile to fade from my face. The coin is Storm’s mother’s. How did she get it?

  The next thing I know I am on my feet, my heart pounding loudly in my eardrums. The coin is Storm’s. She said she would destroy the thing I cared about most, and she meant Storm.

  Chapter 16

  DIANA

  I grab my phone to call Storm, pleading with the universe for his phone to be switched on though it is night. The call refuses to go through. I have not topped up my credit. I don’t have enough money for it.

  Screaming in frustration, I snatch my satchel and Beastie and race out of the room, banging my door shut behind me. It is late night, no tube available for me to speed to Storm’s place. And no bus either. And I can’t run there. I’ll be too late.

  I sprint down my road towards the main road, looking back and forth for a cab, and when I spot one with its yellow light lit, I run right into the road in front of it to flag it down.

  It nearly flies right into me. The driver is furious. I don’t care. Breathlessly I give him Storm’s address, which I shouldn’t know, but I do.

  Shortly after I had moved to London, he had met with me in a cafe to discuss the job. I followed him afterwards. Feeling particularly lonely and lost in the big city, I’d justified it to myself that if only I knew where Storm lived I would feel safe and secure in this alienating metropolis. As if my ability to picture his home was like a comforting teddy bear that I could cuddle in my mind. So I had told myself I wasn’t being a creep, even though I was, a fact which deeply shames me. But now I am glad of it.

  Storm lives in Wapping in East London in a converted riverside warehouse. It is a forty minute drive away.

  I bounce impatiently in my seat, biting my tongue to prevent myself from snapping at the driver to hurry up. London passes by outside of the window, the cityscape in amber light beautiful at night. I am in no frame of mind to appreciate it.

  By the time the cab pulls up outside of Storms building, I am frantic. I run out of the cab, slamming the door shut with enough force to make the driver curse. But I don’t give a damn.

  Storm lives in an apartment buildin
g. The front entrance is a double security door. It being the middle of the night the concierge is not at his desk inside the lobby. I can see that the lobby is dark through the panes of glass in the doorway.

  I don’t know the number of Storm’s apartment. I stab a random number on the intercom, when a mark on the glass catches the edge of my eye. I turn back to look at it properly. It is the mark of the Devil Claw Killer, small but perfectly formed, same as inside my card.

  I give a cry of shock, and then I frantically stab the intercom again. I try three numbers before somebody answers, saying “Hello,” in a sleepy voice.

  “Hi, is Constantine Storm there?” I say, unable to keep the panic from my voice.

  “No, he is not!” says the woman. “Do you know what time this is?”

  “Do you know which apartment he lives in?” I ask insistently.