Deceiver's Bond: Book Two of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life

DECEIVER’S BOND

by

Katherine M. Bayless

Copyright © 2014 by Katherine Bayless

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-0-9846211-8-7

www.katherinebayless.com

Cover illustration copyright © 2014 by Scry Media LLC

Other illustrations used by permission and are the exclusive property of their originators or copyright holders.

For Mom.

Your creativity, generosity, and strength are a constant inspiration.

The agent was using classic interrogation techniques. Not that I knew from firsthand experience, mind you. My talent had educated me in a wide variety of subjects; it was one of the few perks that came with being a clairvoyant. When the merest touch revealed so many secrets, it was impossible not to learn things. Because I often helped law enforcement, few if any of them were pleasant.

It made my life … complicated.

Case in point: This FBI interview. Which was going nothing like I thought it would. Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Government Issue must have missed the memo. I wasn’t a suspect. I was a victim, one of only two survivors of the Circle Murderer’s ghastly attentions, and the only one who wasn’t in intensive care. Jack, my friend and business partner, had only just started showing signs of coming out of his coma. Thank God.

But what had I gotten in return for practically hand delivering a telepathic psycho to the FBI? Agent Roeper—Mr. Blonde—treating me like a criminal, that’s what. So Brian had been dead when the police found us. I didn’t kill him. A demon had taken care of that. The headline had been plastered all over the Internet:
Murderer killed by his own demon!
The wheels of karma turn in odd ways, although I could have done without the front row seat.

I ran my gloved fingers through my hair and tried not wince at the answering pain in my wrists. Roeper had gotten on my first nerve in under five minutes and my last nerve was fraying fast. The guy was so controlled, he probably scheduled his own bowel movements down to the nanosecond. And he never smiled. Not even a phony one when Agent Cunningham introduced us, three damn hours ago.

Maybe this was just how things rolled at the FBI. Everyone was a suspect until their innocence was irrefutable. But holy cow, dude. Get a clue. The last time I checked, I was the one with the injuries and a report from a Chiliquitham police detective who saw the whole thing. I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since it happened, even with my familiar Red perched next to my pillow for the past two nights. The half-moons under my eyes were so dark, I looked like a raccoon. A thirty-year-old, size eight, red-headed raccoon.

But apparently, Roeper didn’t like my story, even with my bruised wrists, under-eye circles, and Detective Vanelli’s statement. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. If it hadn’t happened to me, I probably wouldn’t have believed it either. Being kidnapped by a telepathic serial killer bent on taking control of a secret society of psychics was a lot more Hollywood than Seattle. Throw in human sacrifice, a demon summoning, and a spell that ripped away a psychic’s gifts and killed them in the process—well, then you had a great story for a B-grade horror flick. Not so much the FBI.

We’d been at it since eight this morning. I was getting tired of repeating myself.

“We’ve already covered that,” I pointed out. “Twice. Asking it differently isn’t going to change what happened.”

The square-jawed agent stared at me with the same dubious, uncompromising expression that he’d maintained ever since we entered the FBI’s conference room. “Humor me, Ms. Devon. Five people are dead. Two are in comas. We want to understand why. Surely that’s worth your cooperation.”

I fought an eye roll and shifted my gaze to the guy in charge, Special Agent Cunningham, who’d hardly spoken during Roeper’s questioning. You’d think working as his psychic consultant would have earned me some preferential treatment, but no. Cunningham’s decision to include their truthsayer, Agent Cheung, at the table meant they didn’t trust me. Or maybe they just wanted proof of my wholehearted belief in this crazy story so they could institutionalize me.

“We can take five if you’d like. Stretch your legs, use the facilities,” Cunningham finally suggested, breaking his forty-five minute silence.

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m fine. I just want to finish up and go home.” It’s not like I’d been able to drink anything. My bladder had probably shriveled to the size of a raisin. They didn’t have psi-free coffee, and I couldn’t open the damn water bottle they’d placed in front of me, even though it was safe for me to drink. The damage where the murderer had bound my wrists with his enchanted ropes was still too fresh.

A pulse of anxiety rippled through my chest at the thought of my injuries. It had only been two days, I reminded myself. In a week or two, if I still couldn’t grip with more strength than an infant, then maybe I’d have cause to worry about nerve damage.

I looked back to Roeper. “Like I said, as far as I know, the cab driver had no prior association with the murderer. He just happened to be the unlucky one to pick me up. When he bashed my office’s front door with the tire iron, he couldn’t stop himself. By that time, he was mind controlled.”

“By a telepath,” he said, adding, “A psychic who can read minds and alter thoughts,” as though it needed to be clarified.

His unmasked disbelief had me wanting to throttle him, but I replied evenly: “Yes.”

“And what made you think he’d been mind controlled?”

“I told you. It wasn’t difficult to figure out. After the driver parked in front of my office to let me out, his body sagged, his eyes rolled back into his head. I thought he’d passed out or was having a seizure or something. Just when I was about to call 9-1-1, he snapped out of it. But when he woke up, everything about him changed. He spoke with a different cadence, held himself differently, and had different mannerisms. And when he started talking about Invisius, I knew Brian was using his body to talk to me.”

“Brian Stalzing.”

I nodded.

“The telepath and alleged Circle Murderer.”

“Yes. For the third time, yes. He was a telepath. He abducted Jack and me, held us hostage, summoned his demon, and tried to kill me. Just like the others.”

“And he used the driver like some kind of puppet,” he said, repeating my earlier statement. “He invaded his mind and took over his body. That’s what telepaths can do. Isn’t that what you said?”

“The powerful ones, yes.”

“So, not all telepaths can control someone’s thoughts?”

“No. Well … it’s my understanding that not all of them can. I don’t really know for sure. I’ve not dealt with many of them.”

“Just your friend from school. What was his name? Daniel? Daniel Stockard?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you about Brian?”

“Yes.”

“What was the nature of their relationship?”

“They grew up together, from the age of thirteen, anyway. They were both members of Invisius Verso.”

“Their covert school and organization. Sort of like Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic rolled into one, except we’re not in England.”

Or in a YA novel where all magic is a secret, dickwad.

Oblivious to my urge to accidentally stab him in the eye, he checked his notes and rambled on, “Latin for ‘unseen influence,’ right? Which explains why no law enforcement agency has ever heard of them, even though, according to you, this clandestine society has been around for centuries.”

I swear to God, if he slid his disbelieving gaze toward Agent Cheung one more time …

I leaned forward to glare at him. “Look. It doesn’t matter whether you believe their organization exists or not. The point is Brian Stalzing
did
. And he believed the only way to wrest control away from the guys currently running the show was by gaining power. Lots of power.

“That’s why he targeted psychics and colluded with a demon. He wanted their gifts for himself. The demon had the skill to cast that spell, and Brian used it to kill Nick and Jason and Trinity and Patty. He did it all to steal their powers. If he hadn’t gotten greedy and kidnapped me, there’s no telling how many more psychics he would have killed. He was obsessed with taking out the Invisius elders and anyone else who stood in his way.”

“And that’s how you ended up with those very same gifts, huh? Because you touched the victims’ remains to help us solve the case. A deed most clairvoyants would never even dare to consider. How … coincidental.”

Every one of my muscles tensed, my body poised to deliver a smackdown or storm out of the room. I ground my teeth and glued my butt to the chair. At this rate, I’d be lucky to come out of this interview with any tooth enamel left.

Roeper pretended to muse, going for casual but not quite cutting it. “More than a few people handled the victims’ remains. Interesting that you were the only one to succumb to their residual magic.”

Heat boiled inside me, and, for a brief stretch, I imagined setting my magic loose. Just a quick pulse of energy into that laptop. It perched so close to his body. People got scorched by overheating batteries every day, right?

Nervy hot pain streaked up my arms and stole my breath before I registered my weakly clenched fists. I relaxed my fingers and stroked my injured wrists, biting my lip and willing the pain away. Even though I knew he was goading me, I’d let his words get to me. I needed to stop being an idiot.

“These elders—did he happen to mention their names?”

“No,” I spat.

“What about your friend Daniel? He mention any names or give you details about this secret group?”

“Other than what I’ve already told you? No.”

A good thing too. The less said about Invisius, the better. Their standard response to compromising their secrecy seemed to be ‘mind wipe first, ask questions later.’ In fact, if Agent Cheung hadn’t been in the room, I probably would have said Brian was delusional and there was no hush-hush society of telepaths and divinors.

“Before he appeared in your office two weeks ago, you hadn’t seen this elusive Daniel since … when was it? Seventh grade?”

“Eighth. I was thirteen when he was taken.”

“According to Coventry Academy, his parents decided to transfer him to another school. Shortly after his withdrawal, he was killed in a car accident.”

Even though it wasn’t totally unexpected, I blinked at the information.

He looked smug. “Is this when you tell me you see dead people?”

Asshole.
“No. But, I’m told my grandfather did. It’s not an easy gift to live with.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs under the table. “Daniel’s not dead. Detective Vanelli met him. I’m sure you’ve read his report.”

“He met a man who
claimed
to be Daniel Stockard.”

“No. He met a man who
is
Daniel Stockard. I grew up with him. I should know.”