Killer Stakes: Immortal Kin, #2

Chapter One

My life as a psychic FBI agent was all downside of late.

Not only had a vampire followed me home from my last case, he'd freaking moved into my apartment. I wanted to kick Maxim D’Avignon out, but it wouldn’t have done any good.

We were stuck with each other.

Someone had murdered his entire battery pack of psychics, and we didn't know if the killers were coming after us or not. Worse, we were bonded. As in, psychically connected. As in, a true mind meld. As in, I could see through his eyeballs if I wanted to. No amount of distance could change that. Even if an ocean separated us, I would feel him like he was behind me, breathing down my neck.

I'd had no choice. It had been bond with him or let a psychotic killer rage free.

One Dracula copycat killer, just one, and my life went to shit. Solving crimes was supposed to be a good thing, but when the killer was less copycat, and more actual vampire gone mad, all the rules changed.

Because of our bond, because we were roomies, Maxim seemed to think he had carte blanche to be up in my business. I just wanted to rest and let my body heal—the killer had beaten me like a piñata—but Maxim wouldn't leave me alone. He had opinions on everything, and he was always there, hovering over me. I'd lived alone ever since I hit eighteen. I didn't need this much people time.

My new life goal? Eff that. I would figure out how to break our bond, and then we could both be on our merry way. One case shouldn't sentence me to a lifetime of vampires, right?

The only hiccup? Maxim liked being bonded to me. He was convinced I would learn to like it, too.

He didn’t know me that well.

***

Melia, dear, do you have a mixer? Maxim hummed to himself as he rummaged through my kitchen. I didn't recognize the song, but it probably had a title like 'Most Annoying Song Ever,' or maybe, 'I Wrote This Song Because I Hate People.'

I took in a slow sip of air, delicately breathing around my ribs, and hoped my latest pain pill kicked in soon. That damned Dracula case had filled my body with several percussion sections of ouch. Everything throbbed to its own drum. Being thrown around by a supernaturally strong serial killer hadn't ended so well for me.

Maxim's humming jumped up an octave.

I straw sucked in more air—that was the only way deep breaths didn't hurt—and let it hiss out between my teeth. Why do you need a mixer?

I want to make something. 

The words were innocent, but I knew the subtext, the real message behind them. Vampires didn’t eat. Not like humans did. Maxim wasn't making something for himself; he was making something for me.

Ever since I’d come home from the hospital, he’d decided he should feed me. Except, the last time he’d cooked had been sometime back in the 1700s when his family ran a small inn in the Swiss mountains. I didn’t know what people ate back then, but in the modern day United States, my main food groups were takeout and...well, more takeout.

Say what you will about DC politics, but note that no one ever dogs the food. The world’s diplomats brought their cuisines with them, and my absolute favorite thing to do in the city was try out the food from a place I’d never been.

Ethiopian was my go-to. The flavor was similar to Indian, but instead of naan, there was this soft, almost velvety bread that you wrapped around gloriously spiced meat. Thai food was great for clearing out sinuses after a cold, and DC had Italian food so good it made Italy cry with jealousy.

Melia? Maxim came to stand in front of me, which given the size of my dinky apartment, meant he only had to take two steps.

Hmm? I pushed my eyeballs up and in the direction of his face, struggling to focus. The pain pill had finally hit my system. I felt fuzzy and distant, like being alive was just a bad dream.

Maxim looked dashing, as always. He had blue eyes that ranged from aquamarine to midnight blue depending on his mood, and dark hair that had the tousled sexiness of an action hero. He wore black jeans paired with a tight, body skimming button-down shirt, the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he planned to get his hands dirty.

The mixer. Do you have a mixer? He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating every word.

That made me frown. I wasn’t stupid; I was high. Legally high and I wanted to enjoy it. Damn him. No. I don’t have a mixer. Why do you want a mixer?

I was going to make muffins. His expression grew sheepish. Even he knew how ridiculous that sounded coming from him. A vampire baking muffins was a lot like Martha Stewart sucking blood.

The idea of Martha Stewart guzzling blood from someone’s neck made me laugh, though. Thanks to the drugs, it wasn’t a short, quick laugh, but rather a long, jolly interlude of gigglery. Mostly because I couldn't feel my ribs just then. And no, gigglery wasn’t a word, but I was high and making it up as I went.

Not that vampires sucked blood. Well, they did, but only in the beginning. Eventually they transitioned to feeding off psychic energy. The ones who couldn’t make the jump from blood to psychic energy ended up like my last serial killer—insane and on the kind of drinking binge that left a trail of bloodless bodies.

Maxim heaved a sigh and schooled his face into a more imperious expression. One that spoke of authority and a higher station. He’d mingled with nobility once upon a time and sometimes it showed. You need to eat, Melia. Your body can’t heal and sustain me at the same time.

I ate. I pointed with my chin to the takeout container on the table next to me.

That was yesterday. He put a hand on his hip and scowled at me.

I blinked. Yesterday? Really? Had I lost that much time? I tried to remember. My life was a blur of pills, pain, cable television, ignoring Maxim, and dealing with Dodd’s petulance—the FBI had saddled me with his training. In between, I slept.

When had I last eaten?

Narrowing my eyes, I strained to bring the takeout container into focus. I'd had Thai from the looks of the red lettering on the exterior of the carton. I’d eaten it while watching a Sci-Fi special on aliens among us. What day had that been? What day was today? Damned if I knew.

I shrugged, giving up. I’m not hungry.

Maxim gestured to the pill bottles keeping my takeout company. These medicines aren’t helping you. He made to snatch up the bottles, but I got to them first. Sometimes my drugged reflexes fired at the correct speed, although it always surprised me. Like seeing a dead snail come back to life and become a champion sprinter.

Tucking the bottles next to me in the recliner, I glared at him. Don’t mess with my happy pills. I won’t be happy.

Fine. His voice snapped like a rubber band. But you have to eat.

I waved my good hand—the other one was in a cast from wrist to elbow—toward my takeout menu collection. I kept them all in a little basket on top of the fridge. Order something.

He took down the basket and went through the menus, looking more and more disgusted as he did so. It’s all junk, Melia. You eat like the world’s largest woman with a death wish.

What does it matter? I pointed to him and then at myself. You said I wouldn’t age or die. That had been his main selling point when he first approached me. It felt good to throw it back in his face. I’d bonded with him out of desperation, and quickly learned staying alive wasn’t as easy as he made it out to be.

Exhibits A, B, C and D: my broken arm, broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a touch of internal bleeding for extra fun. Oh, and let's not forget exhibit E: the part where I'd almost killed my partners because I'd been slow to believe vampires were real. Jim and Dodd still didn't know how much danger I'd put them in. There were a variety of good reasons for that, one of which was I had no idea how or what to tell them.

For the record: there might be a million rumors about UFOs covered up by the government, and endless conspiracy theories about Bigfoot and psychics on the payroll, but for all that, the FBI offered no training on what to do when reality went batshit.

I'd screwed up.

Big time.

And no one knew but me...and Maxim.

Melia? Melia? MELIA! Maxim's voice boomed loud.

I squinted to bring him into focus. Hmm?

I was saying you still need food and healing requires a certain amount of nutrition. He put the basket back on top of the fridge. You should be eating fruits and vegetables.

Did Elise eat the rainbow? Did any of your women?

Elise isn't conscious.

Still? Maxim visited her every day at the rehab center. I'd hoped there'd been some progress finally.

His expression tightened. She's the same.

I sighed and wished Elise would wake up. We’d only met twice. Once after Maxim kidnapped, me and again right before I went on a date with him.

Yes, kidnapping. He really did that to me.

And no, not that kind of date.

Of course, he thought it was that kind of date.

For me, it was a going-undercover-to-catch-the-bad-guy kind of date. Completely professional. The fact we were now hitched was an unforeseen complication. I was psychic. I was supposed to see stuff coming, but Maxim had been a total surprise.

Anyway, Elise had helped me a little with my own psychic powers and healed me once. Unfortunately, she'd almost died before I could learn enough to return the favor. Now she drifted in a coma. They said she would wake up, but no one knew when.

If I’d been halfway healthy, Maxim could’ve transferred my energy to her, acting as a psychic middleman through the bonds we both had with him. However, I’d just been discharged from the hospital and was borderline on the healthy front myself. Maybe in a few weeks I’d have enough energy to spare to help Elise.

I hoped it was sooner as opposed to later. Not only did I owe Elise, she might take Maxim off my hands. My hope was she would take over sustaining Maxim and help break our bond. At the moment, I was feeding Maxim and trying to heal at the same time.

Our living arrangement was less than ideal. I had given Maxim the only bedroom and took the couch for myself, which allowed me free run of the apartment during the day, but left me with awful kinks in my neck.

Most of my furniture was secondhand, and I’d thought the leather couch had been a major score when I first bought it, but having slept on it, I could see why someone would ditch it.  The cushions were soft enough to suffocate someone and hide the body inside.

Maxim, worth millions, had offered to buy us a bigger place, but I didn’t want to lose my home turf. Also, he'd earned all his money by having his psychic harem telekinetically rig the lottery. Profiting from that would be a total ethics violation for an FBI agent. I'd take a hard pass.

A knock sounded at the door. I checked the time on my phone. Six p.m. I knew who it was, no psychic powers needed. Plus, my calendar app was flashing a reminder.

Maxim went to answer the door, throwing it open with no ceremony and revealing a surly Dodd. Agent Dodd didn’t like me, which meant Maxim didn’t like him, while I tolerated them both within an inch of their lives.

Maybe the phrase happy pills wasn’t quite right. A more accurate description would be pills that keep me from hurting annoying people.

Maxim ignored Dodd as he stepped into the apartment. I’m going out. I’ll be back after this, he waggled his fingers at Dodd like he was flicking off dirt, is over.

The two men stiffly navigated around each other, their gazes glowering but not making direct contact. With a judgmental huff, Maxim stalked out the door, shutting it firmly behind him. It was kind of funny. I didn’t know the punch line, but the set up to the joke was something like ‘a psychic and a vampire walk into a room.’

And then what, I couldn’t say, but I laughed anyway.

Hey, Mel. Dodd raised his hand in a tentative wave. As usual, he looked like an over-inflated body builder. His jeans highlighted massive thigh muscles, and his black polo shirt strained to cover his torso without ripping. Dodd was handsome enough with a blond buzz cut and a chiseled jaw line, but I’d been on the wrong end of his attitude too many times to find him attractive.

Hey, yourself, Dodd. I jerked my head toward the kitchen. There’s bottled water in the fridge. Bring me one, will you? Ordering people around was the one thing I liked about being injured.

He paused to shrug off his fleece jacket. Fall had come early and put us all in extra layers. Hanging his coat on the hook by the front door, he went into the kitchen. A second later, he returned with two bottles. He handed me one and then settled on the couch. A quiet spread between us, like a blanket trying to smother a fire.

Dodd cleared his throat when I didn’t speak. I looked at the evidence you asked me to review.

And? At my direction, the lab had assembled a sampling of my cases for Dodd to practice on. They gave him a bare outline of the crime and whatever physical evidence they had. Since I’d used clairvoyance to solve the crimes, I knew what Dodd should see.

He looked at me, stricken. How do you do this?

Do what?

Dodd clutched his head. See everything and not lose it.

Oh, right. He was new. I’d grown up with pictures in my head. It had never been an option to not see things. Over time, I’d learned how to separate my sense of self from the gore that danced in my mind like a mental illness. Dodd was a latent just coming into his psychic abilities. He still had no filter, no way to shut off or let go.

It’s hard, Dodd. You’re not weak if it bothers you.

Then what is it if not weakness? He gave me a doubtful look.

Just something new that you will learn how to manage. I bit the inside of my cheek. I sounded like a growth mindset guru...for psychics. Super cheesy. Dodd had that effect on me.

And until I do?

I shrugged. You remember you’re helping people. That makes it all worth it. It was the reason why I’d taken the job offer from the FBI. I’d lost so much that the idea of saving others held incredible personal appeal. I couldn’t bring my parents back from the dead, but I could fix other families. Give children a happier childhood than mine.

Is it worth it? He tapped his forehead. I can’t stop seeing things.

That’s because you don’t do the work to establish good shields. I gave an impatient huff. I’d never met such a reluctant psychic. Dodd fought me on everything. He didn’t listen, he didn’t practice, and he complained a lot. Sometimes I could empathize, but mostly I found his refusal to take responsibility for himself irritating. If he kept this up, I would have to note it in his performance evaluation.

I can’t meditate. Dodd rubbed his forehead like meditation came with a side of sucker punch. It’s weird.

And being psychic isn’t? I just shook my head.

Look, I was a football player. Went to church every week. He paused and cracked his knuckles. I wasn’t valedictorian, but I was homecoming king four years in a row. In college—

I cut him off. You played ball. You were in a fraternity and drank too much. Your grades were middling, but somehow you got into the FBI. I know your background. I read the file.

He sighed. I’m just trying to get you to see that I’m different.

You’re not different. Impatience sharpened my voice into a sting. You’re all-American and common as apple pie. What makes you truly different is being a psychic, and if you can’t embrace that, I can’t help you. No one can.

He gave a grudging nod.

The cases. Tell me what you saw. If not for my cast, I would’ve crossed my arms. Instead, I settled for a pointed gaze.

He took a long swig of water and then slowly, haltingly started to give me a rundown of the case files he’d reviewed. My stomach sank as he went. Dodd was consistent and reliable and way too accurate for me to write off. It would have been better, given his attitude, if he’d been a crappy psychic.

So, how'd I do?  His eyes widened, asking me for an out I couldn't give.

Great, actually. I gave him a thumbs-up. I hate to break it to you, but with readings like that, you’re stuck with me.

He swallowed hard. He'd wanted to screw it up.

Oh, come on. Is it really that bad?

Dodd shook his head. "What if I don’t want to be