The Witch and the Gentleman (Page 3)

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.