Darlings of Paranormal Romance (Anthology) (79 page)

Brandt snatched up the paper and
strode through the front glass doors. Once outside, he glanced down
at the address.

"Shit." She'd given him the same PO
Box address he already had. Technically, she'd done what he'd
asked, while avoiding giving him what he needed.

"Is there a problem, sir?" A
competent-looking older man approached him. "I'm Dr. Wascott. This
is my office. Maybe I can help you?"

Brandt smiled, happy to find someone
normal in the town. "I'm Detective Sutherland." Brandt once again
reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. "I'm looking for
directions to Samantha Blair's place."

"Oh." The older man smiled, his bushy
brows giving him a Rip Van Winkle look. "That's easy. She's at the
old Coulson homestead." He turned and pointed out the direction.
"Head up the highway to the large gingerbread-looking house. Turn
right onto the dirt road past the house and follow it all the way
down to the lake. She's pretty isolated down there, but seems to
enjoy it." He opened the front door of his office. "There's no
problem, I hope?" He paused and looked back at Brandt, one eyebrow
raised.

Brandt shook his head, tucking the
slip of paper into his shirt pocket. "Not at all, I'm just checking
on some information she gave us."

"Didn't think so. She's not the
type." Smiling, the vet walked inside, the glass door shutting
behind him.

Brant stared up the road.
A gingerbread house – that should be easy.

***

4:09 pm

Sam dragged her sorry ass out of the
truck and up the wooden stairs. The vision had left her feeling as
if she'd gained a hundred pounds. Every shuffling step had become
an effort. That insight into a killer's mind had been downright
unpleasant. Knowing he'd found another woman, hurt her. That she'd
had the vision at all terrified her. It was yet another sign her
'talent' was changing. And she didn't like it one bit. Her head
throbbed from the remnants of sensory overload.

Moses barked excitedly, his madcap
tail waving in the wind. He shoved his wet nose into her
hand.

"Hey boy. Sorry to be so long today."
She scratched the big dog's head. The golden haired Heinz 57 mix
easily came to her mid-thigh. She smiled at the oversized black
paws. Moses had been the main man in her life for a long
time.

Shifting her library books, picked up
over her lunch break, she strode up the front steps. On psychic
phenomena, these books might hold the answers to her perpetual
problem. At one time, she'd asked experts for help. Unfortunately,
she'd chosen the wrong kind of expert.

Images of padded walls and needles
slammed into her mind. Ruthless, and with more experience than
she'd like to admit, she slammed them right back out
again.

Moses slumped to the deck in his
usual jumble of muscle and sinew, thumped his tail once, and fell
back asleep.

"Good companion you are,
Moses."

His tail thumped again, but he
couldn't be bothered raising his head. Sam bent down to stroke his
back. Her fingers slipped in and out of the thick golden pelt,
enjoying the silky contact. A great sigh erupted from him, and he
relaxed even further.

Sam laughed at his total exit from
the world. He had the right idea. She needed sleep, too.

Exhaustion from her vision had caught
up to her. Even running a hand over her forehead brought a tremor
to her spine. After putting on the teakettle, she walked into the
bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and wiped her face. The cool
wetness helped refresh her.

Catching sight of her face, she
winced. Her porcelain skin – always translucent – now seemed paper
thin, transparent even. She looked friggin' awful. She closed her
eyes, shocked at how far her health had sunk. If she didn't find
answers soon, her 'gifts' would kill her.

She was halfway there now.

While she walked through the tiny
cabin, loneliness crept in. She stared at the plain walls, her hip
propped against the counter and a hot cup of tea warming her hands.
The support walls were old logs and the floorboards had been cut
from hewn wood. They'd worn down in places and would have some
incredible stories to tell if they could talk. Unfortunately, in
her case, they could. Depending on the day and the strength of her
energy as to what signals she picked up, the stories went from
unsettling to downright nervy.

Moses raised his bushy head and
growled. Sam glanced around, puzzled. "What's the matter,
Moses?"

He growled again, staring at the
place where the driveway drove out of the evergreens at the top of
the ridge.

Sam gazed out the living room window,
but couldn't see anything. Living out here, wildlife often shared
her space. She loved watching the deer make their way to the river
for a drink. Thus far she'd also seen raccoons, coyotes, and once,
in the evening, a bear. If the animals left her in peace then she'd
be happy to return the courtesy.

A faint rumbling told her what she
needed to know. A vehicle. She retreated into the house, a leery
eye on the driveway. It didn't take long before a black pickup
bounced into view and rolled to a stop at the porch
stairs.

A tall, rugged man got out, removed
his sunglasses, and tossed them on the dash. He appeared vaguely
familiar, yet she couldn't place him. Using the one gift that she'd
come to accept, Sam assessed the waves of determination pouring
from his shoulders. This man was nobody's fool. And he wanted
something from her.

Moses growled again.

That face. The lock of brown hair
falling down on one side, piercing eyes and a 'take no prisoner'
attitude, dressed in denim. He was a cop. Recognition flickered. He
was the man she'd almost run into at the police station. Curiosity
and fear mingled. What could he want? Her stomach acid bubbled as
tension knotted her spine. She chewed her fingernail as his
six-foot frame climbed the stairs.

The heavy pounding on the other side
of her head startled her. She cursed silently, but with full force,
letting it bounce around inside her mind. She wiped her moist palms
on her jeans, and opened the door.

"Yes?"

His brow furrowed. "Samantha
Blair?

She frowned. "Maybe. Who's
asking?"

An odd light shone deep in his Lake
Tahoe blue eyes. "Detective Brandt Sutherland, at your service,
ma'am."

"Your badge, please," she
said.

His eyebrow quirked, still he didn't
say anything. He reached into a back pocket and withdrew it for
her.

Sam plucked it from his fingers. She
read the number on it several times, committing it to
memory.

He reached for the badge.
"Satisfied?"

Sam handed it back to him. "Maybe.
What can I do for you?"

Tucking his badge away, he stared at
her, an odd glint in his eye. "You spoke with Detective Kevin
Bresson at the station this morning, correct?"

Nerves knotted her stomach tighter,
pulling down the corner of her mouth. Sam frowned at him. What was
he up to? "Yes. You saw me there." Her stomach heaved. "What's this
about?"

He shifted his weight. Why? He didn't
seem the type to feel discomfort about much in life.

"May I come in?"

She considered his request for a long
moment before opening the door wide.

Moses followed, staying close to her
side, and nudged her leg. She dropped her hand to his head,
reassured by his warm presence. "Good boy, Moses."

Big brown eyes laughed up at her, his
tongue lolling to one side.

"Moses, is that his name?"

Sam nodded slowly, studying this lean
muscular male, hands fisted on his hips, as he watched her. Raw sex
appeal oozed naturally from his very presence. She frowned. He was
too damn appealing. She didn't like that. Cops were not her
favorite people. Sexy ones definitely didn't make her
list.

Glancing around the small living
space, she realized she didn't know what to do. She'd never had any
company here before. Did a police visit count as company? Did she
sit down with him? Offer him a cup of tea or what? Awkward – and
hating the uncertainty – she repeated abruptly, "What do you
want?"

He surveyed the simple living room,
walked over to an old sofa, and stopped. "May I sit
down?"

With a new perspective, Sam saw the
threadbare furniture for what it was – shabby signs of dire
poverty. It wouldn't have mattered any other time – after all, she
lived it. She didn't understand why it mattered now.
"Sure."

She sat on the couch opposite, trying
to understand why he intrigued her. He glowed – with life, with
health. He had so much vitality that everything around him paled by
comparison. His energy was a beacon she couldn't help but find
attractive – the lure of warmth and strength, something she'd
experienced little in life. He dwarfed everything in the small open
room. Sam felt tiny, insignificant against his more dynamic
presence.

He reached across and placed his huge
hand over hers.

Sam froze. His touch burned into her
icy hands. Heat flared. So did confusion. Attraction. Hatred. Pain.
Heat. Everything rolled together. Her gaze flew up to meet
his.

He squeezed her fingers. Only then
did she notice she'd been twisting her fingers around and around in
a nervous pattern. A habit she'd tried to break for years. She
yanked both hands back and tucked them under her thighs, leaning
back. Heat still pulsed inside her veins. Heat she wanted to nestle
closer to, yet couldn't explain why. Or didn't dare try. Nervous
energy bubbled up. She clamped down hard and forced her errant
muscles into stillness. Sam waited for him to speak.

"Are you okay?"

She jerked her head up and
down.

"Good. Then let's go over the
statement you gave Detective Bresson."

"Why? He didn't believe
me."

"But maybe I will," he countered.
"So, please, from the beginning."

The beginning. She cast a careful eye
over him.

He prompted. "You said you woke up
inside a woman's body as she was being murdered?"

Oh, that beginning. Relief blossomed,
and she settled back into the couch. Slowly, succinctly, she
explained her story again.

"Any idea if his ring had real
diamonds in it?"

She glanced at him in surprise. "No.
I wouldn't know the difference."

"Could you see the woman's
hair?"

"This one had long brown hair. I
think it had a slight curl to it."

He raised an eyebrow at her and
pursed his lips. "Curly?"

Sam swallowed hard several times,
overwhelmed with the memory. Soft and feathery, the dead woman's
beautiful curls had stroked against her neck with every twist and
turn of her head as she fought for her life.

Locking down her grief and stiffening
her spine, Sam explained. "I could feel it curling around my
neck."

The look on his face
eased.

Sam had no idea if he believed her or
not.

"Can you tell me anything about his
height, the clothes he wore, the type of mask he had
on...anything?"

His mask. Shivers raced down her
spine. The madness in those eyes – those glowing orbs still made
her nightmares hell. Green neon had shone with joy at the pain he
had inflicted.

Sam could hardly speak. Her voice
hoarse from unshed tears, she explained what little she'd seen, and
the impression the killer had left on her. She hunched her
shoulders against the lingering horror, hating the power the
memories held over her.

He asked a few more questions. She
slid into monosyllabic answers, wishing he'd finish and
leave.

Finally, he snapped his notebook
closed and tucked it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks." He stood and
walked to the door, and turned back to face her, pulling out a
business card.

"I don't know if I believe you or if
what you've given us even helps, but I appreciate you having come
in to share your information. If you think of anything else, please
let me know." He nodded politely and walked out.

Now that he appeared ready to leave,
Sam's emotions scattered. She didn't know what to make of him. His
presence confused her. Interested her. Intrigued her. Memories
dictated that she should be angry, scared even. But she was none of
those.

Sam trailed him onto the porch. The
detective hopped into his truck and drove off. He never looked
back.

Sam stayed, bemused, until his truck
bounced and shuddered out of sight. For the first time in years, a
faint hope came into being. Maybe something could be done after
all.

"And just what the hell was that all
about, Moses?"

His heavy tail brushed over the
wooden planks. Not much of an answer, still it was the only one she
was going to get. She headed back inside, Moses at her heels. A
chill settled into the room – or maybe it was into her
soul.