Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven (4 page)

Every
passing minute, each new discovery convinced me I was not a shade.

I
watched the clock; when did the hospital allow visitors? Royal arrived at ten
after nine. In honey-brown cord pants and a primrose-yellow, long-sleeved shirt,
hair fastened by a leather cord into a ponytail, long coat over his arm, he
strode to the bedside, sank down beside me and took my hand in his. “Hello,
darling.” Then stopped, as if he had already run out of things to say.

It
made me wonder again: How often would he sit at the bed talking to me if time
stretched to weeks, months, finding things to say getting harder with every
visit?

Royal
coughed low in his throat and started again. “I did not see Mike yesterday. The
department is investigating a murder at a residence in the Avenues. Big case.
The media is going wild and the mayor is in a frenzy. Mike is up to his ears.
But I’ll try again today. I put our cases on hold and told the clients they are
welcome to go elsewhere if they cannot wait.”

“You
what?”
No, he couldn’t. Building our rep and the business took too long.
He was throwing it away. “You can’t do that, Royal. I don’t want to start again.”

Mel
and Jack exchanged looks.

“What?
I know he can’t hear me but I can’t help it.”

“How
about you concentrate on learning to travel,” said Jack. “You can’t do anything
stuck in this room.”

Jack
was determined now he realized I couldn’t help him communicate with Dale. I had
to find a way to tell Royal he must not give up on me. I had no idea how, but
Jack was right: the answer was not in the hospital.

He
went to Royal and hovered over him. “Let’s try this.” He fisted his hand a few
inches from Royal’s head. “Come here, Tiff. Put your hand next to mine and close
your fingers. Can you feel it?”

I
did as he asked, shut my eyes and felt Royal’s aura. “Feeling it’s not the
problem, keeping hold of it is.”

“Now
move a fraction until you feel a change in texture.”

Excited,
my hand trembled and I worried I’d lose the aura. But I kept my hand sliding
along it and felt a smidgen of resistance. And lost it.

“For
mercy’s sake!” I plunged my hand in Royal’s aura and closed my fingers to make
a fist.

And
I had it. Not at the end, right in there. I felt it in my hands and didn’t lose
it when I pulled.

I
bounced on my feet. “I did it, guys!” Then let go, appalled. Did I yank Royal’s
aura? Did it hurt?

But
he hadn’t reacted, so I guessed not.

“So,
while he’s sitting here steaming, practice,” said Mel.

“You
think he’s steaming?”

“Maybe
not steaming, definitely stewing. I bet he’s been furious since you were shot,”
Jack said.

Royal
checked his wristwatch. “I have to go but I will return soon.”

“Grab
him!” Mel yelled.

I
snatched at Royal’s head.

“Careful,”
Jack said.

“Ack!
He’s on the move,” said Mel as Royal stood.

I
sucked in a breath and decided to think about not feeling the inhalation
another time. Carefully, I wound my fingers in his aura. “Got it.”

“Wow!”
from Jack. “It took us weeks.”

“I
recall.” Not knowing what they were doing, finding Jack and Mel in my personal
space irritated the heck out of me until they mastered the technique and I knew
what they had been doing.

“But
I don’t have hold of the ends, my hand is right in there.”

“Might
have known it’s easier for you.” Jack rolled his eyes.

And
we were off as Royal strode from the room.

I
staggered behind Royal, trying to keep hold but not run into him. Then I saw
Jack and Mel bent their knees to lift their feet from the ground. They smirked.
I gave them a dirty look and copied them.

“Wheee!”
from Jack.

“Are
you
enjoying
this?” Not me. Yeah, moving with Royal was incredible, but
there we were, three people scrunched together on an oblivious demon and I felt
crowded.

“If
you’d been stuck in your house for nearly thirty years, you’d enjoy it,” said
Mel.

How
did Royal not feel us? Didn’t we put weight on him? But he kept his stride with
no faltering.

And
he really moved. Not demon speed, but he blew through the hospital like a storm.
Past his shoulder, I saw his expression and understood why others in the
corridors got out of his way. A few staff members gave him hesitant smiles. He
didn’t notice. He didn’t wait for an elevator but charged down the staircase, crossed
the big foyer and went through the double glass doors. We got out of there and
in the parking lot in a jiffy.

Icy
rain pattered from an overcast sky but I felt nothing, neither the moisture nor
what must be lip-chapping cold air.

When
we approached Royal’s big white pickup truck, I wanted to let go.

Jack
must have sensed my dread, or knew from his early experiences: parts of us were
bound to go through the cab and upholstery. “Hold on, Tiff. We don’t want to backtrack
for you.”

I
gulped and nodded, and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel any change and opened my
eyes a minute later to find we already headed out of the lot. A tiny
eek!
erupted from my mouth. My spine and hips stuck through Royal’s seat. I shifted to
a position behind the seat, but my arm went through the headrest. Jack moved to
the passenger seat; he and Mel released Royal and settled side by side.

“This
is so wrong.” I wanted to rest my face on Royal’s smooth hair. “We’re crammed
together and I can’t feel him. I can’t feel anything.”

Jack
was all compassion. “Get used to it, sister.”

Royal
atypically drove above the speed limit on slushy roads and patches of packed
snow and ice in intersections, the result of severe weather this February,
freezing temperatures and snowstorms coming in one after the other. Ridges of
dirt-encrusted snow lined the streets where the plows pushed it. Rain made the
trodden snow on the sidewalks slick and glistening.

The
icy rain became sleet pelting from a dark sky. The truck’s windows fogged and
Royal turned on the heater to clear them.

“Well,
this is fun,” I offered drily.

“You’ll
appreciate riding in a car after you’ve had to get along on foot, moving from person
to person, taking ages,” Jack said.

“No
doubt.” I didn’t want to be apart from my body long enough to find out.

“You’re
going to have to let go, unless you mean to stay with Royal forever,” Mel said.

“And
what’s bad about that?”

“All
the time? Even when he poops?” she asked with mock innocence.

“Mel!”

“She’s
right,” said Jack. “I mean, if you want to travel, you have to learn to let go.
And you have to learn to catch someone when they’re on the move.”

“I
will. Eventually.”

I
watched the stores, cafés and other businesses as we zipped past. The storm
made everything so dark. Streetlights came on and made halos on the slick
sidewalks. Neon glared from shop windows. We took a right and drove past the
old courthouse, and went on by. Royal did not head for Clarion PD.

The
truck climbed the hill toward The Avenues.

“Are
we going home?” I queried. “Royal likes to take this route to my place.”

“He
may be en route to a client,” Mel suggested.

“No.”
I shook my head. I had a feeling. “We’re going home.”

The
white Dodge pickup followed the roads I drove for so many years, until we arrived
at Beeches Avenue and parked outside my house. I already felt a pang of
nostalgia.

You’ve
haven’t been away long, Tiff, you sappy idiot.

I
had not let go of Royal but Jack and Mel scrambled to grab him. Out of the
truck we went, plastered all over him. His steps lagged as he walked the path
to my door. Did he dread going in when he would not find me there?

Then
why come?

Royal
took a key from his pocket, opened the door and his mouth stretched in an
unconvincing smile. His voice dropped to a low croon. “Hey, Mac! Mac-boy!”

Mac-boy?
Jack mouthed.

Those
tears which were not there made my eyes swim. Royal came to tend to my boy, perhaps
the bravest thing I’d known him do. Entering my house without me there, risking
a chunk out of his ankle, for my sake, took guts.

“I
can’t watch,” said Mel as Royal went along the hall to the kitchen.

He
peeped around the doorframe. “Hey, Mac.”

My
little man-hater—well, Mac does not discriminate: men, women, anything with
legs; an ankle is an ankle, whether it wears pants, boots or hose—sat under the
kitchen table. He cocked his head, perked his ears and walked to Royal with his
tongue lolling in a big doggy smile.

Royal
went to his knees and scratched Mac behind his ears.

Shocked,
I released Royal’s aura. “Well I’ll be damned.”

After
half a minute of scratching, Mac scuttled to the pantry and eyed the door
expectantly. Royal went over there, got Mac’s bowl off the shelf and scooped
kibble from the bag. He put the brimming bowl on the floor and Mac dived in.

“I
should have known.” I puffed out a breath. “All these years . . . cupboard
love.”

Jack
said, “The little beast has learned a new appreciation of your guy now he’s the
one handing out the chow.”

“Don’t
be upset,” Mel said.

I
scowled. “I’m not upset.” Not biting the hand which feeds you didn’t mean Mac
changed his loyalties.

“No,
not you. Your face crunches up like that naturally.”

I
made my forehead smooth and headed for Royal. He stood with Mac, waiting for
him to finish his food, which didn’t take long. Royal took the bowl to the
sink.

I
sank in a crouch. “Mac. Come on, baby.”

Mac
snuffled at the floor for invisible crumbs.

“Guess
he can’t hear you, Tiff,” Mel said softly.

My
boy sometimes sensed Jack and Mel, but not me. How much of this being
incorporeal could I stomach before I lost my mind? I couldn’t comfort my man,
couldn’t touch my dog. I wanted to curl over on the floor and beat it with my
fist.

“He
can’t possibly taste anything he eats, it goes down too fast.” Jack folded his
arms. “His taste buds must have atrophied by now.”

Mac’s
head jerked up. A threatening rumble developed in his belly. With a snarl, he
flung his stocky body at Jack.

I
happened to be in the way and my lad went through me. Although I felt nothing,
I still cringed.

Royal
spun to face us. “Jack? Mel?”

After
a second, Jack stuttered, “What? Did you. . . ? He. . . .”

I
couldn’t get a word out either.

“He
must be desperate,” Mel said.

Why
did Royal say their names aloud? He
never
acknowledged their presence,
now he called to them.

Jack
tore to Royal. He clasped his hands as he looked into Royal’s face. “I’m here,
honey-pie.”

I
chortled. “Back off, Jack. He’s taken.”

Royal’s
wide shoulders sagged and he shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. He came
across the kitchen to Mac and stooped over. “I have to get going.” He stroked
one of Mac’s ears, then the other. “You must go outside for a minute.”

Royal
went across the kitchen, raised the pet door and opened the back door, for
although Mac used the pet door to come inside, he refused to go out through it.
Mac trotted outside and Royal shut the door.

He
sat at the kitchen table, a faraway look in his eyes until Mac trundled back in.
Royal jumped up and snagged the towel off the peg by the back door. Dropping it
on Mac, he went to his knees to rub Mac’s damp coat and mop his paws. Mac’s
paws are sponges, they absorb his body weight in moisture.

Mac
wriggled out and promptly shook, spraying Royal and the floor with snowmelt. However
much you towel a dog, it always has moisture to spare for a shake. Then he left
tracks across the kitchen as he trotted to the pantry. Mac thinks he gets a
treat every time he suffers anything done to his body.

Royal
sat back on his heels. “Mommy gives you a treat at the drop of a hat but you
are a little hefty. Extra weight is not good for a dog.”

Mac
didn’t budge. He sat with his eyes lifted to the pantry.

Royal
sighed as he got upright. He opened the pantry door, dug into the small box of
liver treats and dropped two on the floor for Mac, who sucked them up.

I
grinned. “Ha! Now you see why I can’t say no to the little devil.”

Royal
took his jacket off the back of a kitchen chair. “I’ll be home soon. Behave
yourself while I am gone.”

Home.
Now I noticed the changes in the kitchen. Tidy, spotless counters. The floor so
clean you could eat off it if so inclined, if you avoided the mucky trail Mac
left. Royal’s wok perched near the sink, which didn’t contain a single dirty
dish or pan. Royal was living in my house.

“Come
on, Tiff,” Jack urged. “He’s on the move.”

I
crouched and held out my hand. “Mac! C’mere boy!”

Mac
kept a hopeful gaze on the pantry door.

I
tried to snap my fingers but they didn’t work. “Mac! Hey, boy!”

“He
doesn’t hear you,” Mel said.

Mac
sensed Jack and Mel in the kitchen, why not me?

“Now,
Tiff,” Jack commanded, jogging his head at Royal.

Royal
went to Mac, bent and ruffled the hair on his head. “Behave.”

“Mac!”
I tried one last time. I didn’t want to leave him. Surely if I stayed. . . .

“You
can’t do anything here,” Jack said.

With
one last look at my little black boy, I joined my roommates as they hustled
after Royal. We caught his aura and left with him through the front door.

We
pulled up outside the new courthouse which incorporates Clarion Police
Department.

“Ready?”
Jack asked.                                                  

I
hoped so. If my fingers slipped their hold on Royal’s aura, I’d be stuck in the
truck and I didn’t want to miss this meeting with Mike Warren.

Jack
and Mel reached out and grabbed at Royal as he slid from the pickup. I imagined
we’d make a startling picture if people could see us: three people clinging to
the tall man who strode up the steps and inside the courthouse.

Royal
didn’t check in with the desk sergeant. He lifted a hand to Officer Penrod and
Penrod waved him on. Up the escalator we flew, stuck to Royal head to toe as if
velcroed.

Royal
entered the squad room. For some unknown reason I expected it to look different.
Maybe because an age seemed to have passed. But nothing had changed. Half a dozen
detectives sat at desks, officers moved through the big room. And there, in his
office, Mike Warren stood looking through the window.

As
we passed his desk, Brad Spacer said, “How’s she doing?”

Royal
didn’t pause, he kept going, face looking as if the muscles had frozen. “No
change,” he said tersely.

Mike
turned from his window, spotted Royal approaching and beckoned him in. Royal
shut the door behind him as Mike stood behind his cluttered desk.

They
shook hands across the desk. Mike sat and indicated Royal should do the same.
Mel and Jack let go of Royal. Still clinging, I knelt on the floor at his side.

“How
is she?” Mike asked.

“The
same.” Royal’s expression turned grim. “They moved her out of ICU.”

“A
good sign, isn’t it?”

“I
suppose so. But they think she should have woken before now and do not know why
she has not.”

Mike
settled deeper in his chair. “I’m pulling my men from the hospital, Roy. I need
them on the street.”

Royal
nodded. “I understand.” He eyed Mike from beneath his brows. “So?”

“This
is a tough one, Roy. We don’t know if someone with a grudge tried to take out
Tiff. Maybe they went after both or either of you, and Tiff was unlucky enough
to offer them a clear target.”

“Satisfying
a grudge is the obvious motive.”

“We’re
looking at the cases you worked when you were with us. As for Tiff, she never
testified in court so it’s doubtful any perps or their families know of her
involvement, but possible. We need a list of your private clients, some do know
what Tiff does, those she did her special thing for. They might have let it
slip and it got back to a perp’s family or friends. And it might be a perp; incarceration
doesn’t separate them from the outside world. They may have paid someone for
the hit.”

Royal’s
voice emerged leaden, lifeless. “You may never discover who did this.”

“We
will, Roy.” Mike stuck one finger in his shirt collar to tug it away from his
neck. Red crept up his throat and sweat beaded on his broad forehead.

Royal’s
eyes locked on Mike’s face. He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long
legs. His gaze dropped; he tapped the fingers of his right hand rhythmically on
the chair arm, and said nothing.

Tap.
Tap. Tap. It went on and on.

Jack
stood in front of a precariously stacked pile of file folders on one of Mike’s
cabinets. So we could move, at least in Mike’s office. I released Royal’s aura,
rose and looked at the squad room.