Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  She left the dorm room, smiling like a cat with a belly full of canaries. Emma watched her go.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  EMMA STOOD IN FRONT of the mirror in her room, tugging at her clothes, trying and failing to get comfortable. The neckline was too low, the skirt too short, and the keyhole openings on the sides were too revealing. She had never worn anything so skimpy, and she felt self-conscious and miserable.

  -I can help you with that,- a familiar voice whispered in her mind.

  Penelope Rogers had been a prostitute in Phoenix who was murdered by her pimp. Emma had encountered her spirit when she’d walked through what had been the crime scene on the tenth anniversary of Penelope’s death. Penelope had attached herself to Emma, and since then, they had been constant companions. Emma should have found a way to move Penelope on to the afterlife, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. In a strange way, they had become good friends, and Penelope had helped Emma with uncomfortable situations in the past.

  Can you make me feel less naked? Emma asked mentally.

  Penelope laughed. -Well, I can make you feel less bothered about it...-

  I’ll take it.

  She could feel the Penelope drape herself over Emma’s shoulders like a cloak, and the dead woman’s spirit sank into her. As soon as Penelope had merged with her, Emma’s discomfort with the skimpy dress faded and she could take an appraising look at her reflection. She fixed her updo, touched up her smokey eye make-up, and added some jewelry. It was clear that the producers had a certain image in mind that they wanted her to project, something akin to the sexy witch Halloween costumes that cropped up every year. Since that was part of the requirement, she’d do it.

  -You look real pretty.-

  This time the voice in her head wasn’t Penelope’s. Emma smiled. Thank you, Craig.

  She saw the pale, translucent image of the dead construction worker appear behind her, his arms crossed over his chest. He had been a huge man in life, and he still wielded considerable power now that he was one of her guides.

  -Go wow the bastards.-

  She smoothed her hands over her skirt once last time, and the flicker of self-consciousness she felt faded quickly, replaced by a certainty that she looked sexy as hell. She stepped into sky-high stiletto pumps, the black leather gleaming, and went down to meet Talia in the parking lot.

  -You want me to hang around, maybe mess the guys up if they’re jerks?- Craig asked her.

  She smiled. No, that’s okay. Don’t make trouble.

  Emma could feel the ghost flexing. -Trouble’s what I’m best at when guys are bad to my girl. Clive sure learned that!-

  Her smile died. Yeah... Let’s not talk about him.

  A third voice spoke up. -I told you. Idiot.-

  Betsy was a settler’s wife who had died in an Apache attack outside Fort Lowell. She was no-nonsense and took no guff from anyone, something that Emma could appreciate.

  Talia was standing outside the car, leaning on the door in a red dress. Her natural hair was bound back in a red scarf, and her dark skin gleamed in the Massachusetts sunlight. She looked like Hollywood.

  “Hey! There she is,” Talia greeted, grinning. “You look like a million dollars!”

  “I look like a call girl,” Emma replied, “but thanks.”

  “A call girl a man would pay a million bucks to bang.”

  Emma heard Betsy sniff. -That’s not a compliment.-

  Talia and Emma got into the car, and Talia handed over a manila folder filled with headshots and data pages. “This is the cast. Memorize it.”

  “I already know who they are. I watch the show.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I had no idea. Are you a fan?”

  Emma sifted through the paperwork. “Not particularly. I think they’re idiots.”

  “Well, don’t tell them that.” She put her hand on Emma’s knee. “Listen. The one thing that will get Quinn Riley to overlook you being a psychic is if you’re his number one fan. The guy’s got ego for days.”

  She nodded. “That’s obvious. Guys that good looking tend to be narcissists.”

  “You think he’s good looking?” the production assistant grinned.

  “They all are.”

  “Even Brent? Pudgy little Brent?”

  Emma smiled. “He’s got a sweet face and beautiful blue eyes, and out of all of them, he looks the most like a regular guy, you know? Nothing wrong with Brent. Tyler’s handsome, but too studious, like he’s trying to look smart. And Quinn is obviously too in love with himself to ever love anybody else.”

  Talia laughed. “Wow, you must be psychic. It’s like you know them already.” She put her hand back on the steering wheel. “There’s personal information about all of them in that dossier. If you use it to give them a so-called ‘reading,’ then you can wow ‘em.”

  -Pssht,- Craig commented from the back seat. -You don’t need that. Why are they doing this?-

  Because they don’t believe in me, she answered, frustrated. She made a point of not looking at the information and closed the folder.

  They drove to a five-star hotel near Boston’s Public Garden. A valet took the keys, and Talia took Emma’s hand, her smile big and blinding. Emma wondered if she’d had her teeth professionally whitened.

  The production assistant led her to the hotel restaurant, where the hostess took them to a private section of the room. Henry Rogerson, Montcalm, Avila and the boys from the cast were all there. Rogerson stood when the two women came into the room. He spread his hands out to the side and offered an expansive greeting, his voice booming.

  “Ladies! So glad you could join us!”

  The other men at the table stood, as well, following the producer’s lead. Emma looked at their faces. For the most part, their expressions were on the friendly side of neutral, but Quinn Riley made no effort to conceal his disdain.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Emma told Rogerson.

  Talia sat down beside Avila, which left only one open chair - the one next to Quinn.

  -That was deliberate,- Betsy commented.

  Clearly. She sighed. Okay... let’s make the best of this.

  Emma walked to the open chair and gave Quinn her friendliest smile. “Is this seat taken?”

  “It is now,” he answered. He politely held the chair out for her, and once she was settled, he sat down again. He glanced at Tyler, who was on his other side, and Emma could see that the two of them had a long history. Much was unspoken but clearly understood in that look.

  The man all resumed their seats, and Professor Montcalm smiled at Emma gently. “How was your trip from out west?”

  “Uneventful,” she answered as brightly as she could.

  “I’m sure you know who these gentlemen are,” Henry said, grinning, “but let me introduce you anyway.”

  “No need,” Quinn grumbled.

  Emma sighed and looked at him. “You’re Quinn Riley, lead investigator.” She continued around the table, addressing them all in order. “Tyler Sullivan, the historian. You also investigate. Brent Hill, the tech guy, who handles the cameras during the investigations. Avila Singh, production assistant. Talia Jackson, production assistant. Henry Rogerson, producer, and last but not least, Professor Charles Montcalm, the team’s faculty advisor, required in order to maintain the group’s connection with the university.”

  “Nicely done,” Henry congratulated. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “I’ve watched the show since it premiered,” Emma smiled. Beside her, Quinn straightened in his seat, his chest puffing ever so slightly. She pretended not to notice. “I see your names in the credits, and of course Mr. Rogerson, Miss Singh and Miss Jackson were all involved in my interview.”

  “An interview?” Quinn asked accusingly, his eyes on Henry. “How long have you been planning this?”

  Avila answered. “The network came up with the idea right after you wrapped the last investigation of season two.”

  “
That was in August,” Brent said, surprised. “That was months ago. Why are we just hearing about this now?”

  Professor Montcalm said, “It takes time to fully vet a psychic. There were many people we spoke to, but we were convinced by Emma’s abilities and by her credentials.”

  Quinn turned to her. “I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

  “Emma Ray.”

  She offered her hand, but he ignored it. Instead, he asked, “What credentials could you possibly have?”

  Brent muttered, “Don’t...”

  Emma took a deep breath, and Craig muttered, -I don’t like him.-

  -Hmph,- Betsy chimed in. -I agree.-

  “It’s not like we’re licensed, I know,” she said, smiling at him as amiably as possible, even though he was staring at her with pugnacious challenge in his eyes. “But I have been fully tested and documented by the American Parapsychological Society, with affidavits from witnesses and past clients attesting to my accuracy.”

  Tyler leaned forward so he could speak to her across Quinn. “So what are your abilities?”

  -Putting up with jerks,- Craig offered.

  Hush. She turned her smile on Tyler. “I’m a psychic medium - a physical medium, to be precise - and I also have some clairvoyance and psychometry abilities.”

  “What’s a physical medium?” Brent asked. “Isn’t a medium a medium?”

  “There are mental mediums and physical mediums,” Professor Montcalm explained. “Mental mediums hear and receive messages from spirit using their minds. Physical mediums can do this, too, but they are also used by spirits to manifest physical effects.”

  Quinn snorted. “Like ectoplasm, right?”

  “That’s one form,” Emma nodded. “Mostly it’s things like objects moving, taps and raps, voices, smells... whatever energy they need to manifest themselves the way they want, they get it from me.”

  Tyler frowned. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It can be very draining.” She shrugged. “That’s why most physical mediums don’t live for very long.”

  Henry emptied his wine glass. “Emma is a very special medium. She has the abilities of both mental and physical mediumship.” He grinned at Quinn. “At least that’s what they said.”

  “Who said?” Quinn asked.

  “Dr. Begay. The one who introduced us to her.”

  Emma smiled as the waitress brought her a glass of water and a menu. Tyler asked, “What about spiritual mediumship? Do you have that ability, too?”

  She opened the menu and spoke while scanning the offerings. “No. A spiritual medium is someone based in a faith tradition. That isn’t me.”

  “So you’re not a witch?” Quinn challenged.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Lucky for us,” Brent said, smiling. “I think you’d probably put a hex on our boy if you were.”

  -Don’t tempt us,- Betsy said.

  “I don’t hex,” Emma told him. “It’s about the Law of Threefold Return. Whatever you put out into the Universe returns to you three times stronger. That’s why you have to be careful about what you do.”

  They ordered their meals and their drinks, and after the waitress left, Emma turned in her seat to look at Quinn.

  “You hate me,” she told him.

  He smirked. “Is that a psychic reading?”

  “No. It’s more or less a statement of fact.”

  Henry chuckled into his glass and glanced at Avila, who nodded.

  Quinn leaned his elbows on the table. “I don’t like psychics.”

  Emma nodded. “I’m getting that impression. Why?”

  “Because it’s a bunch of hogwash. It’s just circus sideshow stuff... ‘I’m getting a message... is there someone here with a loved one whose name starts with M?’” he mocked. “And I don’t think there’s any validity to the psychics I’ve seen in haunted locations. ‘Oh, someone died here.’ No shit, Sherlock. That’s why we’ve come.”

  Emma sat back and clenched her hands in her lap, trying to squelch her irritation. “That isn’t how I operate. And as I said, I’ve watched your show, so I’ve heard the very unkind things you’ve said about psychics and mediums in the past.”

  Quinn looked at Henry. “And that’s exactly why this idea is so stupid. Our style doesn’t mesh with the New Age crowd. We’re after hard, scientific evidence of ghosts. Not ‘oh, I’m getting a message.’” He grabbed his water glass and took a sip. “She’s just going to make us look stupid.”

  “No, you do that for yourself just fine,” Emma told him. Brent sputtered on his own water and tried to conceal his laughter. “What’s so hard to accept about psychic ability? You’re already on record as believing in ghosts.”

  “Entirely different.”

  “Not different at all. You can’t be open to one aspect of the paranormal without being open to all of it.”

  “In your opinion.” Henry chuckled again, and Quinn turned to glare at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m just thrilled with how this is shaping up,” the producer crowed. “Conflict is ratings gold!”

  “Our ratings are fine without this stunt. We don’t need her, and I for one don’t want her with us.”

  Emma crossed her arms. “You’re not exactly making me feel all warm and fuzzy about being here, either.”

  “So leave.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?” He looked around. “I don’t see anybody holding a gun to your head.”

  “Oh, this is brilliant, but save some for when the cameras are rolling,” Henry coached.

  Quinn fell into sullen silence, and Emma looked at her watch, wondering how much longer this would have to go on.

  Avila tried to save the day. “So...Emma. Can you do a quick reading for me?”

  Talia hurriedly interrupted. “Your information wasn’t in the dossier.”

  “What dossier?” Tyler asked.

  “We gave her a little primer on all of you,” the production assistant told him.

  Quinn turned an accusing glare toward her, and Emma quickly said, “I didn’t read it.”

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “I’m certain that you didn’t have any information about me,” Avila said, smiling. “Come on. Read me.”

  Emma opened her mouth, then shut it again. She was excruciatingly on the spot, not at all ready to open up and contact the spirits just now.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Betsy told her. ‘You can do this.’

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She reached out, trying to tap into any spirit at all that might have a message for Avila. At last, someone stepped forward. “There’s a man here, and he’s playing a guitar.”

  Quinn said, “Maybe it’s Elvis.”

  “Shh!” Brent scolded, laughing.

  Emma ignored him. “He says he’s proud of you but wonders why you haven’t kept up with your studies.”

  Avila’s eyes misted with unshed tears, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Go on.”

  The man who was speaking to her whispered again, and she repeated what he had to say. “He says that Granny is well, and the oranges no longer bother her.”

  Avila burst out weeping, unable to contain her emotions any longer. She wiped at her eyes and said, “That’s my Granddad. He died ten years ago, when I was talking about going to medical school. He really wanted me to be a doctor.”

  Brent turned and stared wordlessly at Emma. Quinn, unimpressed, crossed his arms and sat with a sour expression on his otherwise handsome face.

  “What’s with the guitar?” Talia asked.

  “He was in a rock band when he was a kid.”

  Tyler asked, “And the bit about Granny and oranges?”

  Avila beamed at Emma. “His mom loved the smell of oranges, but she couldn’t eat them because they were too acidic for her stomach.” She rose from her seat and rushed around the table. She hugged Emma tightly, and she returned the embrace. “Thank you so much! Yesterday was my gr
andfather’s birthday, and I was thinking how disappointed in me he’d be.”

  “He’s not disappointed,” Emma told her, echoing what the spirit was telling her. “He’s very proud of the woman you’ve become.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes and stood up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. Emma looked up at him over Avila’s shoulder, and the glare he gave her was so full of distaste and almost hatred that it made her feel cold.

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  He marched away, and Tyler turned to call after him, “Hey, Quinn...”

  “Let him go,” Professor Montcalm advised.

  Tyler stayed in his seat, but Brent hurried after his friend instead. Avila retreated from the hug and went to the ladies’ room to wash her face. Emma, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions in the room, picked up her water glass in a shaking hand.

  Henry rubbed his hands together in glee. “This is going to be epic.”

  Chapter Three

  Tyler found Quinn at the hotel guest store, throwing a packet of cigarettes down onto the glass counter. He sighed when he saw the barely contained rage on his friend’s face. This was going to be hard.

  He walked up behind Quinn and put his hand on the other young man’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “You don’t want those. You quit, remember?”

  The clerk at the counter looked from Quinn to Tyler and back again. Quinn ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay.” He grabbed some gum instead, and they went outside to side on a bench by the front door.

  “Take a deep breath,” Tyler counseled.

  He watched as Quinn leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The two young men had been best friends since second grade, and Tyler had seen his friend go through a lot of bad moods, but he’d never seen anyone as negatively affected by just the thought of psychics as Quinn Riley.

  “I hate this,” Quinn finally said, his words muffled by his palms.

  “I know. But we don’t have a choice. We have to work with her, or we don’t have a show.”

  Tyler glanced up as a trio of girls in club dresses passed them, heading out of the hotel and toward a waiting taxi. He could see recognition in the eyes of the blondest of the three, but they got into the car without harassing them. Perhaps they had seen Quinn’s distress and realized that now was not the time for a selfie. Whatever the reason, Tyler was grateful that they had chosen to leave them alone.