Bishop nodded. “It is one theory we believe to be very likely. That could explain how you’ve been able to cope with acquiring so many different abilities without organic damage. You were healing yourself from the moment your abilities were first triggered.”
Hollis considered a moment, then apparently changed the subject. “That isn’t a shield? The protective part of my aura, I mean?” She sounded rather hopeful.
“In your case, no.”
Hollis sighed and said to Nellie, “It’s like being the brightest or the dumbest kid in class. Either way, not in step with all the rest.”
“I get that.”
“I thought you probably would. It’s only my aura you can see? Nobody else’s?”
“Nobody else’s.”
To Bishop, Hollis said matter-of-factly, “So at least some of my abilities are apparently broadcasting in that way. Perceptible, at least to a psychic as powerful as Nellie is.”
“Apparently.” He looked thoughtful. “My guess is that the way Nellie uses energy is just close enough to the way you do that she’s able to perceive it in—or as—your aura. At least when your shield is . . .”
“AWOL?” Hollis said. “Which it is right now.” She shifted slightly, almost unconsciously, bothered by the skin-crawling sensation caused by energy she could sense but couldn’t quite get a handle on.
He nodded, as matter-of-fact as she was. “As Nellie said, her own shield is better at containing, not keeping things out. Energies. And the rest of us are shielding.”
“So I get to be visible. Lovely.” But she sounded more resigned than upset about it, sighing as she reached for her coffee cup.
DeMarco said, “Your shield is stronger some days than others. So maybe tomorrow will be better.” He wasn’t frowning, but it was in his voice.
“Maybe.” She knew what concerned him, adding calmly, “Being visible to Nellie doesn’t necessarily mean the unsub will notice, even if he’s psychic.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t.”
“We don’t know enough about him to worry about something that may not be a problem. We could all be visible to him. We don’t really have a clue what’s possible here. Abilities, I mean. Talents. Don’t borrow trouble.”
“All any of us can do,” Bishop pointed out, “is keep our guards up and shield as much as we can.”
DeMarco half nodded, but whether in agreement or merely acceptance was hard to say.
Since they had reached the coffee-and-dessert stage of the meal and their waitress had left them to enjoy, and since the subject of abilities had been opened, Bishop said to Nellie, “Miranda and I met one of your crows up on the mountain.”
“They aren’t my crows,” she objected immediately, a slight frown drawing her brows together.
Finn said, “They were watching the bank this afternoon.”
“I know that.” She didn’t quite snap it.
“Why?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
Nellie sent him a look, then directed her gaze at Bishop. “Did you talk to the crow?”
“Not one of my abilities, though we did get the sense they expected to be asked to help us.”
Finn murmured, “Maybe why they were all around the bank, watching. Waiting for you.”
Nellie continued to look at Bishop. “So did you ask them to help?”
“As I said, not one of my abilities. Only a sense of what they might mean, not true communication. You can communicate with them.”
“So could Gray. Why didn’t you bring him along?”
“On another case. And we go where the Universe wants us to be, whenever possible.”
Nellie considered that for a moment, then looked at Hollis. “It’s more emotions than thoughts, really. Have you sensed the crows? You’re an empath, right?”
“My control is virtually nil, so I don’t count it as a full ability, just enough of one to drive me nuts,” Hollis explained, then added, “I’m a medium first.”
The words had barely left her mouth when Hollis was aware of a sudden, bone-deep chill. She felt gooseflesh break out on her body as if cold air had swept over her. As if a door into some icy place had opened. She was immediately conscious of time out of sync, aware that even though she was not in the gray time, she was nevertheless looking into a place and time that was not her own. Which was different. And scary.
Visiting an otherworld always carried the risk that she might not be able to return to her own.
There was a weird, muffled silence. And, oddly for her, the group at their table seemed to fade back into a sort of visual haze, leaving her able to clearly see the restaurant as she looked around. And to see . . .
Two tables over, an elderly man and woman wearing what she vaguely recognized as clothing from decades before appeared to be enjoying their dinner. Then the man turned his head and nodded at her, and Hollis felt a new chill.
He’d been shot in the head. Scarlet colored his gray hair around the awful gaping wound, a thread of it running down his cheek.
Okay, that’s new. Don’t usually see how they died. Damn. Oh, damn.
She forced herself to keep looking around, realizing that she was seeing only the dead, also something new for her. There were perhaps a dozen people besides the elderly couple in the restaurant, most sitting at tables as couples or in small groups, seemingly enjoying a meal. The clothing they wore was from past decades, some from very far back; one woman wore a very long skirt with a simple blouse, both that and her hairstyle telling Hollis she had lived sometime before the twentieth century.
They were all aware of her. As her gaze roamed among them, some nodded politely and returned to their meals; others stared at her as if waiting for something.
Hollis couldn’t tell from looking at them how they had died—except for the elderly man.
That has to mean something. What does it mean? These things are always linked to the case we’re on. Almost always. So who is he and why is how he died important? His clothing . . . he could have passed me on the street today and I wouldn’t have noticed his clothes especially, so . . . recent? I think fairly recent. Men’s clothing doesn’t change as much as women’s. A few decades ago. Less. Maybe.
She fixed her gaze on the elderly man, trying to decide what to ask him. But before she could, an odd sort of hazy shimmer above the empty chair beside the couple caught her attention. And as she stared, a huge crow assumed a solid shape, perching on the back of the chair, and bright black eyes gazed at her. It turned its head to exactly, eerily, match the elderly man’s.
Hollis had the unsettling certainty that the bird was every bit as alive as she was herself.
“Wow,” she murmured.
The crow uttered a soft “Caw.”
She tore her gaze from the bird to look at the elderly man, meeting his gaze.
When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, and oddly pale eyes met hers steadily.
“You have to stop him. He isn’t sick; he’s evil. He’s always been evil.”
SIMON CAVENDISH WAS late leaving the bank, which wasn’t all that unusual these days. With Nellie Cavendish having taken over the Cavendish family business interests from her late uncle Duncan, and being not only whip smart but very experienced in finance and having her own ideas about how the business should be run, the last weeks had been busy indeed.
Simon was happy about that. He hadn’t liked Duncan, had profoundly disapproved of his handling of the Cavendish finances, and had been disgusted and appalled by the older man’s other . . . activities.
Simon was glad that was all over and done with.
As for Nellie, Simon had been a bit wary of one raised outside Salem even if she was one of the family and a blood heir of the direct line, but his caution had very soon been laid aside. She definitely knew what she was doing, just as clearly had no intention of enriching herself at the expense of the rest of her family, and he approved of both her shrewd financial decisions and the calm, friendly way she dealt with everyone around her.
He thought all the Cavendish cousins at the bank liked her and approved of her, a few conditionally since she was still new in Salem. There had been plenty of quiet discussions around the topic of who she’d choose as her likely successor; Simon knew himself to be in the running for the job given his own experience and skills in the family business, and while he wasn’t an overly ambitious man and doubted in any case that his lovely cousin would prove to be the last of the direct line (especially if Finn had anything to say about it), he was as ready to assume the mantle of authority over his family as he was to allow someone else to should she choose otherwise.
Either way, he expected to continue his career in finance, which he enjoyed very much. He was already an elder in the family at twenty-eight, being in possession of an extremely strong Talent and a shield that had been partly innate to him and partly constructed carefully through training from other elders so that he seldom had to even think about it, far less concentrate to keep it up.
Which was a very good thing now, he knew. Aylia Blackwood’s farseeing had spread, the gist of it at any rate, and even with his shield up his telepathic Talent had caught more than a few worried, anxious, and even frightened thoughts. He also knew that the federal agents Finn had called to Salem were already making their presence felt, even as calm and laid-back as they seemed, and that even those citizens of Salem without Talents were nervously aware something unsettling was going on, despite Finn’s reasonable cover story for their presence.
Evidence of that was the fact that the downtown streets were practically deserted, unusual on a not-too-cold, pleasant Tuesday evening, and he saw at a glance that the three restaurants on Main were considerably thin of customers. Simon debated briefly as he walked but in the end decided he’d rather scramble a couple of eggs or maybe broil a steak in the neat kitchen of his comfortable bachelor condo and enjoy his music or a movie than eat his supper in one of the restaurants.
It was a night to be at home.
So Simon’s steps quickened as he turned off Main onto a side street that would lead him home. It was dark, of course, but with the streetlights, his route was nearly as bright as day, and despite everything he had no concerns walking briskly home as he did virtually every night.
He’d seen a couple of Finn’s deputies patrolling at the other end of town and didn’t doubt more of them were roaming about, keeping an eye on things. Finn was good. He was smart, and he was careful.
Simon thought about that briefly, then turned his musings ahead to the next weekend as he walked, wondering with what was still little more than idle interest if maybe he’d ask Connie Taylor to go out with him on Friday or Saturday night. They’d gone out on a few casual dates, dinner and a movie and, once, to a small party held by friends, and he liked her, enjoyed her pleasant company. She worked at the bank as well, one of the loan officers. She was pretty and cheerful, she had a good sense of humor, and so far they’d discovered a fair amount in common.
Dwelling with increasing pleasure on the idea of another date with Connie, Simon turned a corner into the block that housed his condo. He didn’t hear a sound, was given not even enough warning to drop his shield and probe.
Something struck his head in a brutal blow that dropped him in his tracks.
“HOLLIS?”
She blinked and looked down to see DeMarco’s hand on her arm. Then she looked around the table at the team and new friends, all staring at her, all visible again and reassuringly alive.
I’m back. Thank God, I’m back.
“What did you see?” her partner asked.
Hollis forced herself to concentrate, still feeling cold. “I’m not quite sure.” Slowly, she described the spirits who seemed to have lived throughout decades, longer. And the old man with the awful wound in his head and his warning. And the crow.
Bishop said, “You don’t usually see how they died.”
“No, thank God.”
DeMarco was looking at her steadily. “So why this time?”
Hollis frowned. “Because how he died is important? Because how he died can tell us who he was? I don’t know. Finn? An elderly man, shot in the head? Was that crime ever reported, as far as you know?”
“Must have been before my time. Or, at least, before my time in law enforcement.”
“Figures.” Hollis sighed.
“I’ll have somebody go through what records we have of deaths by gunshot in Salem, but . . . Remember, it’s only recently that we’ve had official law enforcement here. Something like that is more likely to show up in the town newspaper than anything more official. The newspaper archives are being digitized, but there’s still a lot on microfilm. It’ll take time.”
Hollis sighed again. “So another piece of the puzzle, I guess, and good luck to us putting it together. And as far as the crow is concerned . . . I have no idea at all about the crow. Except that I got the distinct impression that it was as alive as I am. Not a spirit.”
Finn was looking around uneasily now. “I never thought of this town as haunted.”
“The town isn’t haunted,” Hollis said to Finn. “Well, I mean, there are spirits around. But nothing evil or dark or even bothersome.” Despite her own words, she felt uneasy about the old man and the crow. And she still felt cold.
“Is that . . . usual?” Clearly, he had almost said normal.
“Pretty much. Usually I know they’re around but don’t see or hear them. If one of them . . . steps forward . . . and obviously has something to say, then it always means something. Not that I always understand at the time. Like now.”
“So they never speak plainly?”
Hollis thought about it, absently rubbing a hand up and down her sweatered arm. “Well, sometimes they’re less cryptic than other times. But they never point straight at the bad guy. Seems to be a rule.”
Miranda murmured, “The Universe never makes it that easy for us.”
Finn looked at her. “Apparently.”
Since he still appeared wary, Hollis tried to reassure him at least somewhat. “Sometimes I see them doing the sorts of things we living do, just busy getting along. Walking along, eating in restaurants like this one, doing what most people do every day. It’s only the ones with unfinished business or who otherwise need our help that tend to want to talk to us.”
Finn did not look particularly reassured.
Diana said, “I rarely see them the way Hollis does, here among the living, but I’ve learned to feel them around me. Which they mostly are. They seem drawn to mediums even if they don’t have anything to say.”
Hollis wondered. She almost always saw spirits singularly; she felt them around her as Diana did quite often, but it was a distant awareness usually. When she saw them clearly, when they were trying to tell her something, it was almost always one spirit—and her own reality remained as it always had.
But not this time. This time she had the uneasy conviction that she had somehow stepped into the spirit realm. That had never happened to her before.
And she had no idea what it meant.