Chapter 15

Darla turned her back to me and began jabbing at the flatscreen, clearly annoyed. To think, I’d almost asked her opinion about Stefan. Not only would she have bitten my head off, but chewed it up, spat it out, and sworn at it a few times for good measure.

Talk about dodging a bullet.

There was no time to bask in my relief, though. The landline on my desk gave a startling ring and the various lights on it began to flash in a pattern that undoubtedly meant something important. I picked it up cautiously. “Hello?”

“Vic?” It was Laura. “I tried getting hold of you on your cell.”

I pulled out the new phone and glared at the screen. It unlocked. But since I had no idea where to find the mute setting, let alone see if it was on or off, I put it away again. “Sorry, uh…new technology. Still working out the kinks.”

“Are you available to come to my office?”

Sure, if I could find it. “On my way.”

I had to backtrack four times, but I did eventually find Laura Kim’s office on my own. There were file folders on the floor, a tape dispenser too, and she was glaring at a supply cabinet as if it had optical face recognition. “I need you to double check this area.” She indicated the cabinet with a sweep of her hand.

“Okay.” I looked at it. And then I realized how completely unsatisfying that probably was, so I approached, and looked at it harder. Nothing. “Am I looking for anything specific?”

“I feel an…aversion to it. Are you getting anything like that?”

Given that Laura Kim actually was a medium, I shouldn’t be quick to discount her “impressions.” However, Laura was also completely freaked out by her recent psychic categorization, and taking her level of stress and the sensitive nature of her job into consideration, chances were, she was also paranoid. Justifiably so, but still. A false alarm would not surprise me.

But, with the same patience I use when Jacob has me smell the creamer ten times and then swear on a stack of bibles that it hasn’t gone bad, I dutifully drew down some white light, centered myself, and looked.

Nothing.

“All clear.”

I’d given her the most decisive cop-delivery possible, but she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are you sure? Because I’ve noticed that I’m leaving stuff on my desk rather than putting it away, and that work habit is totally not me.”

“Right.” I gave the cabinet another scan. “Could be that it’s just an awkward height.”

Her eyebrows drew together.

“I can give it a metaphysical once-over just to be sure. I’ll just grab the salt and—”

“Stop right there.” Laura tapped something into her watch and said, “Patrick, I’ll need sacred salt in my office, and….Vic, anything else, incense? Candles?”

“Florida Water, if you have it.”

Of course they had it. They were the FPMP. They knew the heebies and jeebies were really real.

Shortly, Patrick arrived with the props. He carried the ritual items on a tray so as not to contaminate anything, and he set it on Laura’s desk. As he turned to go, he gave me an eyebrow wag that conveyed, Oh my God this is so totally cool.

“Do you need me to leave the room too?” Laura asked.

I considered sending her out, but no. It was better for her to see that mediums should take death with a grain of salt. Literally. Because if you get your head in a rut, ruminating about ghosts and dying and hauntings, you won’t be any good to anyone. “Stay. And…I’ll talk you through the process.”

It went against everything I’d trained myself to do—all the minimizing, obfuscating, and downright lies—to tell someone else what was really going on when I did my thing. I guess all the “sharing” I did with Jacob had worn down my resistance. As the director of the FPMP, Laura might be an awfully risky person to confide in. But she was also too distressed to leave in the dark.

“So first, you center yourself. If you know about chakras, think about them. If you believe in God, pray. Doesn’t really matter which flavor you lean toward. It’s all about the focus.” I drew down the white light, then looked at the room again. Pretty much the same. But I knew myself well enough to know I was juiced up, and if there was anything to be seen, I’d see it.

“Next you take the salt, and you activate it.” I grabbed a stiff pinch and pulled down the white light. The salt lit up to my inner eye. “Some folks insist on using the left hand, some say a prayer. I have no idea why salt holds energy, but it does. I…I see it. So once your salt is ready….”

It would be more dramatic to scatter it, but a lot harder to clean up. I sprinkled it in a neat line, then dusted off my palms.

“Do the same with the Florida Water.” Another pull, and it was activated too. Whether the herbal ingredients held a vibration or the scent just focused my will, I couldn’t say. “It smells like cheap cologne, but it works.” I twisted off the cap, partially blocked the opening with my thumb and shook out just a few drops. Messy, and now my fingers smelled like cloves. I considered telling her a spray bottle actually worked fine, but I suspected that wouldn’t be ritual enough for comfort. “Feel any different now?”

Laura stared hard at the cabinet, and said, “I can’t tell.”

“Yeah. It can be slippery. Plus, your furniture wasn’t haunted to begin with—not that I’m throwing stones. We have our loft blessed every month, whether it needs it or not.” Together, Laura and I gazed at the non-haunted cabinet as I loosened my grip on the light, and allowed it to settle back to its default level. “Nonphysical energy…well, it’s really a thing. And if you’re a medium, somehow, through whatever personal filter you have, you’ll know.”

“Will I? Because it feels like I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Look, I’m willing to throw salt all day long. But you’ll be better off in the long run learning to handle the energy yourself.” Lame, I know. I did sincerely want to help Laura, but the fact was, I couldn’t be with her twenty-four hours a day to keep the spirit world from testing her boundaries.

I was in the elevator when I thought of something that actually could protect her day and night. Faun Windsong’s ugly necklace. All I’d need to do is get hold of…oh. Wait. I pulled out my phone—it really was nice and thin—and sent Crash the message, Do you still have that beaded shaman necklace I gave you?

He texted back, Thanks to the fire, it’s in necklace heaven now. Want me to find you another one?

There wasn’t “another one.” That clump of feathers, beads and twine had been fashioned from sacred Native American relics and a few hundred years of prayer. Never mind.

You sure? I’ve got connections.

Maybe. But so did I. And mine were certified psychics.

I headed back to my office. Carl was standing outside in the hall talking on his phone, and he turned away from me as I passed by in the universal “don’t bother me” signal. Inside, Darla watched the flatscreen as a blocky African American guy in a suit wandered through the haunted office. I sat down at my desk. The chair was too high, but trying to crank it down only made it recline. I woke up my monitor with a jiggle of my mouse. It brought up a password screen. And since I hadn’t the faintest idea what my password might be, I damn near gave up my whole budding idea as worthless. But then I remembered my phone.

Unlocked with a scowl. I tapped an icon I recognized as a browser, and lo and behold, a search bar popped up.

Nice.

I’m not sure how many results Bert Chekotah’s name pulled up, but the very first one was underlined in blue, so I tapped it to send him a message. Something else with a progress wheel opened, and began to play a little electronic sound. And since it would be way too mortifying, even for me, to hand my phone to one of my colleagues and say, “Make it stop,” I sat there and pretended whatever I’d just done was entirely intentional.

After a few seconds, the chimes cut off, but before I could breathe a sigh of relief, Bert Chekotah appeared onscreen. At first, I thought it was just a pixelated selfie, but then it moved. And by the time I realized what I’d done, it said, “Detective Bayne?”

Damn it. Now I’d have to talk to him.