Deceiver's Bond: Book Two of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (32 page)

Over the years, I’d read many instruments, even the Lipinski Stradivarius, but even with those experiences, I’d never felt such an innate connection to the music being played or the musician who played it—perhaps because those virtuosos were so removed from me by the passage of time. This kid—shy, gifted, and dreaming of better things—had been a teen little more than two generations before my time and the music he played and the streets he walked were as well known to me as his name. With his keen ability to innately suss out the tone and pitch in any sound and then reproduce it, it was no wonder his name was now immortalized.

When I opened my eyes, Randy’s inquisitive gaze raked over my face, his expression screaming, ‘Well?’

I tried to cover my chills with a muted, professional smile, hoping to placate Phil, who frequently harped on me to make my reveals as surprising as possible. I slipped on my gloves to cover my excitement and feigned a casual tone. “It’s been a long time around the block, but this guitar has finally found its way back home. It was purchased from Myers Music, here in Seattle, back in 1959.”

I beamed at Randy’s widened eyes and tipped my head toward the instrument. “This is Jimi Hendrix’s first electric guitar.”

Randy jumped in his chair as though I’d goosed him with a live wire and exclaimed, “No shit!”

I laughed, nodding at him. “His dad bought it when Jimi was just sixteen. It was a big deal because they never had much money. Couldn’t even afford a case for it. But he only played it for about a year before it was stolen from The Birdland’s stage during a break. The man who stole it—another hungry musician several years older than Jimi—played it, on and off, for a couple of years. He’d get it out every once in a while but, after several moves and more than a few career changes, he stashed it in the attic of his house. His son unearthed it decades later when he cleared things out to get his dad’s house ready to sell. Of course, you know that part.”

Randy made a whooping sound, practically grinning ear to ear, before collapsing to the table, arms splayed. Lifting himself up, he exclaimed, “Girl, you just made my millennium. I shit you not. When the guy who brought this into the shop mentioned his father growing up in Seattle in the 50s and that he even played at some clubs there, I hoped … you know? But you get how it is. The chances of this being
the guitar
… slim to none, right?” Eyes wide, he blew out a loud breath. “Holy shit.” He drew out the word so it sounded like ‘ho-lee.’

I chuckled. “Yeah. Even as a sixteen-year-old kid, he was something special. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

He assured me that the pleasure was his and then pushed away from the table. “You go ahead and take your photos. I gotta call Brad. He’s going to fucking flip.”

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d taken the necessary photos for my appraisal and they’d shot Randy’s animated telephone call to his brother (in which half the words uttered would no doubt have to be bleeped), he rejoined me at the conference table for the remaining items on the agenda. None of them brought any revelations as startling as the guitar, but I think Phil and Randy were pleased with my performance anyway.

“Last one.” Randy placed the final item on the table, a gold necklace with what appeared to be an ancient, silver coin as its pendant.

The golden links were thick and radiated that rich, matte finish 18-karat gold always seemed to attain after years of wear. The tarnished silver coin, approximately an inch in diameter, was struck with the profile of a man wearing a diadem—the thin headband frequently worn by Greco-Roman monarchs in antiquity. I could imagine the necklace might look striking on the right type of man—one who was tall, fit, and immaculate. Or maybe a muscle-bound biker. On anyone else, it’d just look smarmy.

Tired and anxious to get back home, I didn’t waste time. I picked up the necklace, touching only the chain. I’d glean the details regarding its modern ownership, first, before tackling the more difficult task of reading the ancient coin.

As the chain’s essence poured into my mind, I winced, my lips curling into an involuntary grimace. At least one of its owners had experienced something powerfully bad. Not since I’d touched Patty’s remains had I run into such a thoroughly corrupted stream. I had just seconds to consider my options. Did I want to accept these memories? I was dealing with more than enough stress without having the added burden of someone’s horror-filled thoughts in my head.

No. Phil would just have to be happy with the readings I’d already done.

But when I tried to drop the necklace, I couldn’t. I clutched the chain even tighter. Grunting, I fought to loosen my constricting muscles, going so far as to pry at my fingers with my left hand, knowing if I didn’t drop the chain soon, I’d suffer for it.

I jumped to my feet, jolting my chair backwards to skitter somewhere behind me, and whipped my hand toward the floor, desperate to fling the enchanted item from my white-knuckled grasp. I heard Randy exclaim, “Shit! Lire, what’s wrong?” but couldn’t spare the energy to respond. Pouring everything I had into my shield, I strained to keep the memories at bay for as long as possible, in the chance that I’d somehow force my fingers to comply with my wishes. But, in just seconds, the pressure and mounting pain grew too much to bear. I cried out as the onslaught overwhelmed my shield and tore into me.

I wavered on my feet, consumed by the memories of Evan McLean, a wicked, cunning man, who was as unassuming in his appearance as he was debauched and violent in his methods. And he was possessed by a demonic entity so cold and alien, it stole my breath away. Aware of my contact, the malevolence seized upon me as though I were an insect caught in its web. Through our forced connection, I felt the creature’s hunger and overarching determination to possess or kill me. Only the broken tatters of my psychic shield stood between the core of my being and this unspeakable evil. If I couldn’t break the conduit by releasing the necklace, it would soon breach my shield and enter my mind. Then I could easily end up like Jena Purcell—succumbing to a psi-induced coma followed by a lingering death.

Kieran caught me before I collapsed, looping his left arm around my waist and pulling me upright. He held me firm against his torso to keep me standing and grasped my right wrist with his free hand. Holding my arm away from my body, necklace dangling from my fiercely clenched fist, he chanted next to my ear a stream of musical words, completely foreign but heartbreakingly beautiful. Whether he uttered a spell or was simply speaking to me in Silven, I didn’t know, but at his touch, the power at my command seemed to increase tenfold. It was as if, instead of drawing my potential through a straw, I now had a fire hose.

I reveled in the influx of power, allowing it to build inside of me before aiming it squarely down the conduit. I shouted, fierce and triumphant, and unleashed the pent up torrent, thrusting a massive spike of energy into the necklace. It severed the malignant connection and shattered the compulsion spell.

Take that!

Freed of its deadly grip, I relaxed my fingers and allowed the chain to drop. It hit the carpeted floor with a cacophony of muted clanks.

I slumped against Kieran too relieved to pay attention to the mounting chaos around me.

Over the exclamations of Randy and the others, Kieran tightened his arm around my waist and demanded next to my ear, “Speak to me. Are you well?”

Gripping his arm in response, I planted my feet under me and nodded. I swallowed the bitter taste at the back of my throat and ordered my stomach to relax. There was no reason to run for the bathroom.

I had to clear my throat a couple of times before I managed to croak, “Yes. Thank you.” I had more to say to him, but it would have to wait. I was still wired up for sound.

Phil hurried over, eyes intent on the necklace, but before he could bend down to retrieve it, I pulled away from Kieran to step on it. I tried not to wobble on my feet. “Bastard. You set me up.” I scanned the room. Not seeing my quarry, I zeroed in on him. “Where is he? Where’s the man who gave you this? Because there’s no way he’d leave this key piece of evidence unattended. What did you do? Park him in the closest empty room with a monitor so he could watch my near-death by remote?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked me over. “You look pretty healthy for someone who’s had a near-death experience.”

For a moment, I just stared at him. His single-mindedness about the show’s success was one thing, it was quite another to be confronted with how little he cared about me personally. It wasn’t surprising, but shocking nonetheless.

“That’s it. I’m done.” Surrendering the necklace to his eager grasp, I snatched my gloves from the conference table and slipped them on over my shaking fingers.

Agent Fisk was sure to show up at any second. Part of me yearned for a showdown, but the last thing I wanted was to get dragged into his investigation, especially with Kieran in tow and my stomach as queasy as it was. If Fisk got wind that I knew something important, he’d surely want to interrogate me. I didn’t want to leave Kieran alone to fend for himself, and if I insisted Kieran accompany me, Fisk would demand to know why. Which would bring the whole matter of Kieran being undocumented to Fisk’s attention.

Crap.

I didn’t need this complication. Kieran and I had far more pressing things to deal with.

Evan McLean wasn’t your average gun running, tax-evading thug. He was possessed by a demon, possibly more powerful than Paimon.

Although I tried to suppress it, a shiver racked me, fueling my body’s inevitable stress reaction—a fine tremor that started deep inside my core, which, I knew from experience, would eventually overtake me.

Ignoring Randy’s demand to know what the hell was going on and the nearest camera operator filming my every move, I unhooked my mic and yanked the transmitter from my belt, turning it off before pulling the attached cable from under my blouse. Normally, I’d have gone out of my way to make sure my psi-free mic was packed up properly to prevent inadvertent skin contact from anyone not wearing gloves, but now it didn’t matter. I had no intention of appearing on the show again. I dumped the audio kit onto the table.

While Randy and Gina carried on a heated discussion with Phil, I shoved my digital camera into my purse. It was too bad I hadn’t gotten a picture of the necklace before I’d handled it. Maybe, later, I could ask Gina to send me a still from the video footage, unless Fisk confiscated it first.

I yanked on Kieran’s sleeve to get him to lean down. I whispered next to his ear, “We need to get out of here before—”

The conference room door opened, allowing Agent Fisk to power into the room. His golden eyes zeroed in on me. “Ms. Devon, you and I need to talk.”

I stepped forward to block his view of Kieran. “After what you just pulled, I have nothing remotely civil to say to you, Agent Fisk.” I folded my shaky arms tight against my abdomen, hoping to stave off any overt quaking for a few more minutes. “I’ve already told you, and I’ll tell you again, I don’t want anything to do with your evidence. And tricking me into reading it isn’t going to fly.”

His eyes narrowed. “You knew I’d given it to Phil. You learned something.”

“Yeah. It’s enchanted with a compulsion spell that prevents any clairvoyant from dropping it. It’s also tied to a powerful demon. It wasn’t hard to guess where Phil had gotten it. You’ll be lucky if I don’t pursue reckless endangerment charges.”

“You touched it. I know how your power works. You know who this belonged to. You know what he’s done.”

“You just don’t get it, do you? That thing is tainted.” I jabbed a finger toward Phil, who clutched the black, hinged box containing the necklace. “It’s a booby trap. No clairvoyant with the necessary shield control would willingly accept its essence. Jena didn’t have the juice and paid the price. And you can bet your ass I’m going to spread the word. One dead clairvoyant is one too many. I’ll be damned if you sucker any others into reading that abomination.”

He scowled but made no reply. Being surrounded by a television production team had its advantages. If we’d been alone, I doubt he’d have allowed me to have the last word.

Until now, my voice had been rock steady, but it wouldn’t last. If Fisk saw me fall apart, he’d guess I wasn’t being entirely truthful about my reading. “Right. I’m out of here. Thanks for the fun, Gina. Randy, I’ll send you the appraisals, as usual, but after this, we’re done.”

Randy glared at Phil before stepping toward me. He gestured helplessly. “At least … lemme walk you out. Okay?”

Even though it was the last thing I wanted, I nodded.

Fisk didn’t move. He stood with his arms folded, examining me distrustfully, as Randy, Kieran, and I walked around him to get through the door. I was surprised he didn’t turn and try to cuff me.

Great. Just what I needed—another enemy.

The three of us ambled down the hall, toward the museum’s public spaces, slower than I would have liked since Randy wanted to talk to me. He walked on my left, hands shoved partway into the front pockets of his jeans. “Listen, I’m sorry about what went down back there. I had no idea Phil was in league with that guy. Agent … whatever his name was. I guess that means he’s FBI, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, glancing behind me. One of the cameramen had followed us out, waiting at the door, camera raised, about fifteen feet behind us.

I reminded myself that Randy was still wired up and tried to appear indifferent, even though I itched to kick my legs into high gear to get out of sight. I yearned for peace and quiet to sort out what I’d learned. The coincidence of reading the necklace, on the heels of Paimon’s scaremongering and Kieran’s mention of the dead emissaries, seemed too convenient. Someone, or something, was forcing me further into this business with the sidhe. And, now, I’d come to the attention of a powerful demon. Hadn’t Paimon mentioned something about his boss, or master, searching for me? I wondered if this was the same demon that possessed Evan McLean.

Randy rattled on, jerking me out of my reverie, “I know you’re pissed off, and I don’t blame you. What Phil pulled was some bad shit … but is there anything I can do to smooth things over? You know, so that you’d maybe reconsider pulling the plug on tomorrow? You’re friends with Veronica Michaels. You trust her, right? I’m sure everyone would totally be down with just shooting your normal appraisals with her. We can skip my stuff—”