Fired Up Read online

  For decades, Phyllis Harper had been known as the Psychic to the Stars. She had been the favorite confidante of celebrities, producers, media moguls and others who reigned in Hollywood. In addition she had also consulted for various politicians, CEOs and assorted underworld figures. The pink velvet-flocked walls of her living room were hung with framed photographs of her with famous people. The house had been paid for by her long series of lovers.

  Following her official announcement of retirement she had moved back to her hometown of Seattle. She no longer accepted new clients, but she still took phone calls from those who had sought her advice over the years and the occasional old lover.

  Chloe had always felt a special connection with her aunt. Phyllis was the only one in the family who truly understood her talent. That was because Phyllis possessed a very similar ability. Although Chloe was the more powerful talent of the two, they had both been stuck with the downside that accompanied the sensitivity to dreamlight.

  Phyllis picked up the pot with a hand that sparkled with diamonds and other assorted stones. She winked.

  “Your prints are positively glowing today,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  “He’s a client, Aunt Phyllis.”

  “Yes, I know all about your silly rule. You know I don’t approve. I had affairs with any number of clients over the years, and no harm ever came of it.”

  “You lived in Hollywood. I live in Seattle.”

  “I don’t see why that should matter.” Phyllis tilted the pot to pour the tea. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that particular kind of energy in your prints.” She set the pot down. “He must be very interesting.”

  “He is, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is still a client,” Chloe said. “Besides, I told you that I’ve entered a new phase in my life.”

  “The celibacy thing. Ridiculous decision.” Phyllis clucked disapprovingly. “I’m sure it will pass. But I can see that you’re here on business. What can I do for you?”

  “My new client hired me to find an old family heirloom. Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Edward helped me track it down. Looks like it’s currently in the hands of Drake Stone. He’s still doing shows in Vegas.”

  Phyllis beamed. “I know Drake. Charming man. I remember how concerned he was when the news broke that he was gay. But I was able to assure him that the publicity could be managed in a way that would actually boost his career.”

  “I thought there was a good chance that you would be acquainted with him. Can I talk you into making a phone call to arrange an introduction? It’s a little hard for a small-time PI like me to get through to a famous star like Stone.”

  “Certainly, dear. What shall I tell him?”

  “That I have a client who would very much like to purchase a certain antique lamp from him.”

  “Not a problem. That’s all?” Phyllis managed a tiny frown. It could not have been easy given the amount of cosmetic surgery she’d had over the years. “Why do I have the feeling that things might be somewhat more complicated than you’re letting on?”

  “My client’s name is Jack Winters. And the family heirloom is the Burning Lamp. Ring any bells?”

  “Oh, my,” Phyllis murmured. The vivacious energy that had animated her a moment ago dimmed abruptly. Her heavily made-up eyes narrowed with shrewd intelligence. “That definitely complicates the picture. Do you think he actually is a Winters? A true descendant of Nicholas Winters, I mean? The name is not that uncommon after all.”

  Chloe thought about the nightmare energy that had slammed through her last night. “I’m pretty sure he’s the real deal.”

  “Why does he want the lamp?”

  “He believes that he’ll turn into some sort of psychic monster if he doesn’t find it.”

  “But surely he realizes those old tales about Nicholas and the Burning Lamp are just myths and legends.”

  “He’s convinced they’re real,” Chloe said.

  Phyllis sniffed. “Then he must have a few loose screws.”

  “If I refused to accept every client who had a loose screw I’d go out of business in a week.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “He admitted that he hacked into the Arcane files to find a strong dreamlight reader.”

  “And he came up with you? But you aren’t registered with the Society. No Harper is.”

  “Evidently Arcane has kept tabs on the family over the years,” Chloe said.

  “Supercilious bastards.” Phyllis bristled. “I’d like to know who granted them the right to set down rules for the rest of us who also happen to possess a modicum of talent. If I had a nickel for every time someone from J&J had the nerve to warn a member of our family that he or she was engaged in some enterprise that, as Arcane likes to put it, gives psychics a bad name, I would be a wealthy woman.”

  Chloe grinned. “You are a wealthy woman.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

  Chloe nodded and sipped her tea. There was no need to go into detail. Everyone in the family understood that Arcane and J&J were to be avoided whenever and wherever possible.

  “Trust me, under the circumstances Mr. Winters has no more desire to draw the attention of the Society than I do,” she said.

  “Hmm. That certainly gives the two of you something in common, doesn’t it?”

  “Are you trying to play matchmaker, Aunt Phyllis?”

  Phyllis sighed. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to tease you. But I do worry about you and this new celibacy phase of yours. Just because a traditional marriage is not an option for you doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”

  “I’m tired of having The Talk with men. It always goes the same way: Initially they jump at the offer of a no-strings-attached affair. They think it’s the perfect setup.”

  “A male fantasy come true.”

  “But when they find out that I really am serious about not making a long-term commitment, they get mad and go all self-righteous on me. It only works if I let them dump me first. But who has the patience to sit around waiting for that to happen?”

  “I know, dear,” Phyllis said, her tone soothing. “You must learn how to finesse things.”

  “I try, Aunt Phyllis, but I always end up having to waste a lot of time and energy maneuvering seemingly intelligent men into thinking that they’re the ones who are ready to move on.” She was warming to her topic now. The frustration of it all spilled out of her. “It’s not only tedious, it’s stressful.”

  “It’s tricky, I admit. In my younger days I assumed that the arrangement would work best with married men,” Phyllis said. “They had every incentive to want a discreet arrangement with a woman who would never demand a commitment from them. But oddly enough the married ones always got just as upset as the single men did when I tried to end things. Something to do with the masculine ego, I suppose.”

  “You know I don’t do married men,” Chloe reminded her.

  “I know, dear, another one of your rules. I really don’t know how you manage with so many of them. I have always found that rules tended to take all the fun and spontaneity out of life.”

  “And then there’s the problem of sleepovers,” Chloe continued, ignoring the interruption. “Sooner or later men always want to go away with you for a romantic weekend. Heck, sooner or later I want to get away for a few days in Hawaii, too. But when they find out that they’ll have to book two rooms they get irate, even when I make it clear that I’ll pay for the second room.”

  Phyllis nodded solemnly. “I think it’s the sense of knowing that they can never really possess you. So many men always seem to want what they can’t have.”

  “The fiasco with that psych instructor a few months ago was the last straw. For Pete’s sake, Fletcher Monroe seemed absolutely perfect for me. How could I have been so wrong?”

  “Well, I did tell you that it is never a good idea to get involved with people involved in the field of psychology. They always try to fix you.”

>   “I admit that was a mistake.”

  “But you really mustn’t give up on love and a normal or at least seminormal sex life,” Phyllis said firmly. “You’re young and healthy. Your hormones are humming. There’s always the possibility that you’ll find that special person, a man who will accept a relationship on your terms.”

  “A man who will be okay with a committed relationship with a woman who won’t sleep with him? Hah. What are the odds?”

  “You know, in previous centuries it was not unusual for husbands and wives to have separate bedrooms.”

  “I think that was mainly an upper-class phenomenon.” Chloe frowned. “Probably because the upper classes were the only ones who could afford a second bedroom and because marriages at that level of society were contracted for reasons other than love.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Phyllis agreed. “But, still, there is a precedent for that approach to marriage.”

  Chloe looked at her. “You could afford a second bedroom. You could afford a dozen bedrooms. But you never married.”

  Phyllis expelled a surprisingly wistful sigh. “Yes, well, let’s just say I never found the right man, either.”

  “Face it, marriage is not in the cards for women like us, Aunt Phyllis.”

  “Perhaps not, but that does not mean one cannot enjoy life and men. Think of yourself as a honeybee flitting from flower to flower.”

  Chloe tried to envision Jack Winters as a delicate blossom in a field of daisies. And failed.

  “Somehow I don’t think that imagery applies to Mr. Winters,” she said. “There really is a kind of freedom in celibacy, you know.”

  “Is that so, dear?” Phyllis paused, her cup halfway to her lips. “I never noticed.”

  PHYLLIS CALLED HER on her cell phone an hour later.

  “I got in touch with Drake. The dear man remembers me, bless his heart. He says he’ll be happy to let you view his lamp. He suggests tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s great,” Chloe said. “Thanks so much. I could get to Vegas in the morning if that would be more convenient for him.”

  “Drake is in show business, dear. He doesn’t do mornings.”

  15

  SHE TOOK HECTOR FOR HIS CUSTOMARY WALK EARLY THE NEXT morning. It was still dark, and it was raining, a classic Seattle mist. She wore her trench coat and a hat pulled down low over her eyes. Umbrellas were for tourists.

  Hector had established his territory early on after moving in with her and Rose. Daily he patrolled the perimeter, which consisted of a few blocks of Pioneer Square, marking trees and the corners of various buildings. Along the route they greeted the men and women who emerged from the shelters, doorways, alleys and cribs under the viaduct where they had spent the night.

  Some of the street people had gotten into the habit of stopping to chat with Hector. They knew he made no judgments. In addition, he served as a conduit through which they could communicate with Chloe. She considered them her Irregular Clients.

  The one she thought of as Mountain Man because of his scraggly beard leaned down to pat Hector’s side.

  “Hey, there, Big Guy,” he mumbled. “What’s with the funny collar and that bandage? You get hurt?”

  “Hector says to tell you that he got shot trying to protect me,” Chloe said.

  “Shot, huh? Bummer. Been there, done that. You gonna be okay, Big Guy?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Chloe said. “He wants to know how you’re doing?”

  “Doin’ okay,” Mountain Man said to Hector. “Had another bad dream last night, though. Can’t seem to shake it. Keep seein’ it in my head, y’know?”

  “Hector wants to know if you want him to help you forget the dream,” Chloe said.

  “I’d appreciate that,” Mountain Man said. He continued to pat Hector.

  Chloe opened her senses and put her hand on Hector’s back close to where Mountain Man was petting him. She readied herself for the inevitable psychic shock and let her fingers brush against Mountain Man’s weathered hand.

  A shivering jolt of fear and pain lanced through her. Although she could not actually see another person’s dream images, her dream reader’s intuition interpreted the energy residue in a very visual and visceral way. Mountain Man’s dreamscape was a terrible canvas painted in darkness, blood and body parts. The sounds of explosives, guns and helicopters roared silently in the background. The nightmare was familiar. It was not the first time she had brushed up against it.

  She set her teeth and went to work identifying the disturbed currents of dreamlight. Swiftly she pulsed counterpoint psi to dampen the seething patterns. Mountain Man’s wavelengths would never be normal, but at least she could provide some relief from the night terrors that haunted his days.

  Mountain Man straightened after a while. “Feels better. Thanks, Hector. You two have a good day now.”

  “We will,” Chloe said. “By the way, how’s the cough this morning?” Mountain Man responded with a harsh, rasping hack. Then he thumped his chest. “Better.”

  “Did you go to the clinic?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Please, go. Hector thinks you should.”

  “Yeah?” Mountain Man looked down at Hector. “Okay, maybe I’ll do that.”

  “Today,” Chloe said gently. “Hector wants you to promise to go today.”

  “I will,” Mountain Man vowed to Hector. “Got my word on it, Big Guy.”

  He turned and shambled off across the intersection, heading for his day job, panhandling near the Pike Place Market. There was a clinic in the Market designed for people like Mountain Man. She could only hope that he would follow through on his promise this time.

  SHE WAS IN THE BEDROOM, throwing a few things into a small carry-on bag on the off chance that she might have to spend the night in Vegas, when Rose shouted from the landing on the second floor.

  “Chloe? Fletcher Monroe is here. He’d like to talk to you.”

  Just what she did not need. She tossed the long-sleeved silk nightgown onto the neatly folded silk travel sheet already in the suitcase and went to the open doorway. Hector, who had been napping on the floor, lumbered to his feet and followed her. Fletcher was already on the stairs that led up to her third-floor apartment. Hector glared at him, turned around and went back into the living room.

  Fletcher was dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt with a T-shirt underneath, running shoes and no tie. He had the vaguely rumpled, decidedly un-crisp look that was de rigueur in the academic world. Heaven forbid a Pacific Northwest instructor be mistaken for a denizen of the corporate establishment.

  It was annoying that Fletcher still felt he had a right to come up here and invade her private space, Chloe thought. Sure, she’d invited him in for tea and after-dinner drinks a few times and they’d done some good-natured petting on the sofa. But he was a client now.

  This was one of the problems that came up when you mixed business and pleasure. Boyfriends who metamorphosed into clients and vice versa never got the rules straight. She was forced to set boundaries, and then guys got mad.

  She was about to tell Fletcher that she would meet him downstairs when she noticed the wobbly light of his psi prints. He was giving her his easy, charming smile, acting as if all was normal. But the unsteady, shifting hues of dreamlight told her he was still badly unnerved. He’d had a close brush with death and he knew it. He would be awhile getting over the scare.

  “Hey, there, Miss Psychic Private Eye,” he said. “I hear you saved my life the other night.”

  She hated it when he called her Miss Psychic Private Eye. It was his unsubtle way of mocking what he considered her delusional talent.

  “I had some help.” She surveyed him. “How do you feel?”

  He stopped smiling and exhaled heavily. “I’ve got the mother of all hangovers, thanks to the sleeping meds that bitch put in those cookies, but obviously it could be worse.” He halted on the landing and glanced past her into the apartment. “Actually, it is worse. I don’t hav
e any place to sleep. I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind if I stayed here until I can rent an apartment?”

  “I’m sorry, Fletcher,” she said gently. “That’s not possible. You’ll have to go to a hotel.”

  “I lost everything in that damn fire.”

  He was starting to whine. She hated when clients whined. “You’ve still got a bank account, right?” she said. “And what about your wallet? Was that in your pants when we dragged you out the door?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “So you’ve got your credit cards and access to an ATM. That should be enough to get you a hotel room for a few nights. I’m sure it won’t take long to find an apartment. I’m really sorry about the house.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” Fletcher demanded. The whining tone got worse. “That’s why I hired you.”

  “You hired me to get some proof that she was stalking you.”

  “She tried to burn my house down around me.”

  “I realize that. I was there.”

  “So why didn’t you stop her?”

  She sighed. “Things escalated rapidly. I didn’t realize what was happening in time to stop her. All I could do was try to save you.”

  “Evidently you didn’t even do that very well. They said your assistant and some stranger came along and helped you drag me out of the house.”

  “That’s true.”

  “They also said that Madeline Gibson had a psychotic break and collapsed. That’s probably the real reason you were able to save me.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “Look, Fletcher, I’m in a hurry. Got a plane to catch.”

  “So now you’re taking off on vacation?”