The Witch and the Gentleman (The Witches Series Book 1) Read online

  Such a freak, I thought.

  I opened my eyes and gave myself a few seconds to fully return to my small, but cute, apartment in Beverly Hills. I wrote down the street names and address on a pad of paper next to me.

  After sipping my protein drink and clearing my thoughts, I took my next call.

  “Hi, this is Allison. Thank you for calling The Psychic Hotline. How can I help you see into the future?”

  Chapter Three

  Later, I pulled up to the park.

  Yes, the very same park I had seen in my mind’s eye when talking to Peter. I was freaky like that. Especially these days, thanks to my friend, Samantha, and before her, Victor. That they were both vampires was no coincidence.

  I sat in my car, feeling a deep sadness that I knew was not my own. It was dusk, and the park was mostly empty. A young woman watched two kids swinging. She was looking down at something glowing. It was too big to be a phone. It just might have been one of those Kindle or Nook thingies. Whatever it was, its ambient glow highlighted her lower face and eyes, touching on cheekbones, the tip of her nose, her chin. She highlighted well. The two kids swung and shouted and laughed. The woman ignored them and read, although she glanced up every few minutes.

  The park was exactly as I had seen it in my mind. Back in the day, before I had met Victor, a man I would love, a man I would eventually move in with, a man who I would watch die—a man who was, in fact, not a man at all—I had little psychic ability. I would get flashes of insight here and there. Maybe an odd picture would appear in my thoughts. Enough to believe that I certainly had some semblance of a gift. But it wasn’t until I’d met Victor—a creature of the night who had fed from me for months—that my psychic abilities had truly awakened.

  And boy, had they.

  The more that Victor had fed on me, the more my psychic abilities had developed. The brief flashes had turned into longer movies. The hints of knowing had become full-blown facts. It was the most complicated relationship I had ever had, and the most addictive. When I didn’t have it anymore, with Victor, I was lost.

  And then, I’d met Samantha.

  Samantha Moon, my newest friend, was also a bona fide card-carrying member of the nocturnal blood-drinking club. With each partaking of my blood, with each vampire feeding, my psychic abilities continued to expand.

  And I was back to the exhilaration of a blood connection with a vampire, one that helped me grow my psychic powers. It was symbiotic, it was beautiful, and it was the most intensely thrilling experience of my life.

  I didn’t pretend to understand it, but I believed a sort of transference was going on. As in, a part of her transferred to me with each feeding. A part that understood the intangible mysteries of thought and emotion, but one that connected to a tangible reality.

  Now, my abilities were primarily remote viewing, with a chaser of clairsentience and clairvoyance. Both of these abilities were still in their infancy, although clairsentience—or the ability to psychically feel my way through a situation—seemed to be pulling away. There may have been—may have been—some latent pyrokinesis going on as well. That was the ability to start fires. I wasn’t sure about this last one, but there had been a moment with a candle in my bedroom that had still left me scratching my head.

  It was dusk, but not full darkness yet. I watched the kids swinging as the mom read and occasionally looked up. I waited. What I waited for could be anything. Psychics couldn’t just close their eyes and know all. Yes, we were tuned into the spirit world, and sometimes Spirit, as we called it, would divulge a little information...or a lot. Sometimes, we, as psychics, were not tuned into the right frequency, or not searching in the right places. Not open to the bigger answers. Not ready for the bigger answers. I suspected our lack of all-knowing was more of a result of not truly understanding our psychic gifts, or ourselves.

  Every day, I learned something new. Yes, it would be easier, especially in a criminal investigation, if psychics had access to all knowledge. But we didn’t. We saw what we saw. We felt what we felt. We were given what we were given. And hopefully, it all made sense.

  But nothing came to me in the park and so, before someone got nervous and called the cops, I started up my Honda Accord and continued along the quiet tree-lined street. As I drove, I was fairly certain I had seen this street somewhere else. Perhaps in a dream. Perhaps on TV.

  I didn’t know, but there was something compelling about this street.

  Something that awakened my psychic knowing.

  I thought about that as I drove out to Peter Laurie’s residence.

  Chapter Four

  Peter greeted me with a smile.

  It wasn’t a real smile. It was forced. Tight. I suspected the man hadn’t smiled a real smile in over two years. The exact moment he realized his daughter was missing had ended his ability to smile. Still, he was quite a handsome man, but I already knew that. Seeing him in person, though, was another story. I found my pulse beating a little faster, until I reminded myself that this man had been through hell—and was still going through hell. Which was why I was here. To, apparently, fetch him from the gates of hell and bring him back.

  All in a day’s work.

  He led me inside a wonderfully ornate home filled with original statues tucked in corners and in special nooks, original paintings on the wall, and a lot of old, beautiful furniture. I had a very strong hit, and, like I usually did, I voiced it without thinking: “You inherited the house from your mother.”

  “Yes, very good. She died a few years ago.”

  I went over to one of the paintings...a beautiful example of impressionism. They all were. The painter’s preferred subject matter was ballet dancers. Same with the sculptures.

  “Your mother created these as well.”

  “You’re good, Allison.”

  “I’m just being me,” I said, and walked around one such bronze sculpture that was a thing of beauty. The dancer was pirouetting on her pointed toes, arms circled overhead in mid-spin.

  “My brothers and sister have claimed some of them, but for now, they will stay here. At least, until the house sells.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t a medium and I couldn’t see the dead, not yet anyway, but I had a very strong feeling that his mother was with us now—and perhaps, even his daughter. Then again, what did I know?

  “You’re selling the house?”

  “Yes. It’s time I moved on. I don’t want to, but I guess I have to.”

  An odd choice of words, to be sure. I changed the subject and said, “You love your mother.”

  “Very much so, and I love her art, too. It’s gaining traction. More and more dealers are contacting me and my family. Luckily, she painted a lot. We have hundreds of paintings and sculptures up in her studio, too.”

  Peter led me through the beautiful home, holding his stomach oddly as we walked, and soon, we stepped under an archway and into another room full of only bronze sculptures on plinths and pedestals. It could have been a collection in a museum. I sensed a presence nearby; that is, if only my skin was any indication. Indeed, the moment I had stepped into the big house, I’d sensed spirit activity. How many there were, I didn’t know, but I could feel them, perhaps a few of them, watching me.

  Admittedly, this had never happened before. Not to me. As we crossed the sculpture room and into a less formal family room, I paused at the doorway and looked behind me. I was certain I was about to see my first ghost. Or ghosts. The hair on my neck and arms—hell, everywhere—was standing on end. But as I turned, there was nothing there. Nothing that I could see, anyway.

  Peter waited for me in the family room.

  That I was acting odd in his home didn’t seem to faze him. When I was done acting like the nut-job that I was, he gave me a sad smile and motioned for me to sit in the overstuffed couch along one wall. It was the same couch I’d seen him sitting on earlier.

  I sat as directed, and he did the same in a matching overstuffed recliner. He still held his stomach. A big f
ireplace was to my right. That would be fireplace number two. A thick, white, faux polar bear rug spread between us. It was probably heaven for toes. In fact, I itched to take my shoes off and let my toes revel in the fluffiness, but refrained. It wouldn’t be ladylike, and Peter Laurie was very much the gentleman.

  A TV was opposite the fireplace. I noted an Xbox on a shelf next to the TV. The Xbox was covered in dust. That hit me hard for some reason.

  Everywhere were pictures of a beautiful blond woman and a precocious little girl. Yes, something very lost haunted this home, and it wasn’t necessarily his deceased mother or their little girl. No, it was Peter himself. Still, I saw a small light in his eyes. The light of hope. Perhaps I was his last hope. No pressure there or anything.

  “Would you like something to drink, Allison?” he asked. Although his voice didn’t have much inflection, he was still quite the gentleman. I detected the hint of a New England accent. I told him no thank you, and added, “Drinking clouds my connection. So does too much caffeine.”

  “Then I won’t offer you that hot toddy today.”

  “Say that three times,” I said. “But maybe next time.” I hoped it didn’t sound too flirtatious. I quickly added, “I’ve never taken on a client outside of work. It’s frowned upon.”

  “Which is why I will make a sizable donation to the charity of your choice. If you’re not collecting the money for yourself, perhaps your employers would be forgiving.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. Truth was, I could have used the money, too, but oh well. I knew I would eventually tell my boss about meeting Peter. In essence, ratting myself out. It was a pain in the ass being me sometimes. Although honorable to a fault, I could keep a secret. Just ask my vampire friends.

  “Perhaps you should consider opening your own psychic business,” said Peter in a voice I was beginning to appreciate as very refined and cultured.

  I laughed that off lightly. More truth: I was a big chicken. I liked the stability of working for the Psychic Hotline. I got a steady check. The money was nice. It afforded me to live the life I lived. Living in Beverly Hills was not cheap. Hell, living anywhere in southern California was not cheap. My problem was, of course, that I loved living in Beverly Hills. I loved the restaurants and shops and the people I met.

  Beverly Hills had an inimitable creative energy. On any given day, I could run across Michael Bublé or my local TV anchorman. I’d seen everyone from Brad Pitt to Cher. And it wasn’t just the stars, either. There was vitality here. Possibilities. A sense of abundance and peace, and I responded well to that. Oh, and did I mention the shopping?

  He gave me a small smile. “Just think about it. I think you would be quite good at it, and help a lot of people.”

  “Now, who is the psychic one here?” I said.

  “Certainly not me. I’m just a businessman, and you provide a service that could help a lot of people. Please, just think about it. You’d expand your opportunities and reach so many people who…need you.”

  “You’ve barely met me, Mr. Laurie.”

  “One doesn’t have to be in your presence long to know that you are...different—a good different.” And now, he really did laugh. A high sound that didn’t seem natural. I suspected it was because he hadn’t laughed much, if at all, over the past two years, almost three.

  “Okay, now that we’ve established that I’m a big weirdo,” I said, winking, “perhaps we should get down to business. But first, let me ask, is there something wrong with your stomach?”

  He’d still been holding it and rubbing it absently. The brief merriment was gone. His handsome features drew down, his smile absorbed by his pain. His short hair, I noted, was a good deal grayer now than it had been in many of these photos. He looked down, and said, “Sorry. I ate something bad recently. Stomach’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “Maybe you should take something for it.”

  “Maybe,” he said, and gave me a forced half smile. Yes, he was in some pain.

  “Of course,” he said. “Where shall we begin?”

  “Let’s start with your wife,” I said. “Why did she kill herself?”

  Chapter Five

  Peter stared at me.

  He didn’t ask how I knew. He didn’t mention that I could have found out this information with just a little bit of background work. He just stared at me with rapidly watering eyes.

  Finally, he nodded and said, “She was heartbroken.”

  I felt more tingling and a sadness so great that I hunched over a little, tried to shake it off.

  “You see, she was never the same after Penny’s murder. Especially considering...”

  “Considering what?”

  “Well, the two of them had a big fight that morning. Lots of arguing. Penny wanted to wear lip gloss and she was kind of young to start all of that, so Isabelle vetoed it. Then Penny told her mother that she hated her. Isabelle let our daughter’s words get to her, and had taken her to school without the two of them making up. She never had a chance to reconcile, you know, and it tore her up.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  Peter looked at me. “You have no idea. Yes, she put on a brave face. Even organized a charity in Penny’s name and to help other parents of murdered children. But at home, away from the support of the people who organized walkathons and spread the message across social media, Isabelle was lost.”

  I felt that sense of “lost” and loss, so much so now that I suspected his wife was nearby. Never before had I sensed the departed. Not like this. Hell, my skin was tingling with static electricity. Then again, my powers had continued to grow, and hadn’t my vampire friend fed from me just the night before? She had. We had had drinks at The Ivy. We had seen Tom Cruise and his daughter having dinner. So had everyone else. God, I would hate to be a celebrity.

  Afterward, back at my apartment, after chatting and drinking more wine, I had rolled up my sleeve, sat back on my own couch and closed my eyes as my new friend had drawn her sharpened nail over a vein in my wrist. Yes, the pain had been intense. At first. I always gasped, and last night was no different.

  My friend didn’t sink her teeth into me. In fact, my friend and I had joked about the TV vampires with their elongated teeth. Vampires, as far as I knew—and my friend would be an expert—didn’t have elongated teeth. Why would they? It wasn’t very hard for such a powerful creature to puncture the skin and drink, especially with those freakish nails they had.

  Anyway, I had sat back and relished the sensation of my friend drinking from my wrist. She never liked me looking at her while she fed, and I didn’t blame her. She was a mom, after all. A respected private eye and one-time federal agent. She didn’t want to be seen as a monster. Again, I didn’t blame her. But, of course, she was a monster. A beautiful monster.

  Our bloodletting sessions were not sexual. Not like my sessions with Victor. No, Sam and I were friends only, and, well, we didn’t swing that way. With that established, our bond was pretty tight. So tight that she and I had almost instantly become telepathically bonded. The bond was growing stronger, too. Sometimes, I caught whiffs of her thoughts from great distances. Up close was different. Up close, we might as well be in each other’s minds.

  Yes, last night had been another bloodletting. Samantha Moon had drunk deeply from me, so much so that I’d actually felt weak. The wound on my wrist had healed instantly, as soon as she’d pulled away. Sam had looked away shyly, as she always did, her face delicately flushed, my blood on her lips. She never licked her lips in front of me. She always turned away to do that. My friend was an adorable monster. And a fastidious feeder. She never left my apartment looking like a crime scene. I appreciated that.

  So, it was of no great surprise that I was certain I could feel his wife’s pain. Certain, because I knew she was in the room with us now.

  * * *

  “Your wife’s name was Isabelle,” I said.

  Peter nodded and calmly wiped his eyes. It was late evening and the big house was quie
t. Correction, not quite. I heard the old place settling, creaking here and there. Nothing supernatural. At least, I didn’t think so.

  “I feel her sadness,” I said.

  He kept nodding and kept wiping his eyes. Except he wasn’t able to stay on top of the wiping, and tears spilled down his cheeks.

  My skin prickled. I felt cold. I wasn’t good enough at this yet to slip inside her thoughts, to hear her, or even to pick up any symbolism she might be using to reach me. I just heard her name, and felt her sadness.

  “I’m not a medium,” I said. “I’m not very good at this, but your wife is here with us now and she is very, very sad.”

  I could have made up all of this. Her name would have been easy enough to find. Telling him his wife was here would have been easy enough to say. Except...

  “You know she’s here, don’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded and finally gave up wiping his tears. His startling blue eyes were now red-rimmed. “I’ve seen her, standing behind you over by the fireplace. I’ve seen her twice. I...I thought I was going crazy.”

  “You’re not going crazy,” I said. “We are not alone.”

  He nodded, took in some air, excused himself politely, and left the room. I heard him creak through the big home and shut himself into another room. What came next I would remember for the rest of my life. Deep, wracking, shuddering sobs radiated through the entire house and seemed to come up through the floorboards themselves. Up through my feet and legs, they completely took hold of me.

  But the sobs lasted for only twenty or thirty seconds. Just as quickly as they had started, they stopped. I heard water running, and a few minutes after that, Peter appeared at the arched doorway. That the man had just produced some the loudest, most gut-wrenching sounds I’d ever heard, one would never guess. He looked calm...although mostly, he looked empty.