|
CLICK THE COVER
TO BUY THE BOOK
|
|
|
Pyrite: A Taste of Twilight
Aubrey Ross
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2006 Aubrey Ross
An Authorized Excerpt
“Well, hello, little lady. It’s nice to have you back.”
Jessie Curtis laughed. “Coming from a crotchety M. E., I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Hank McElroy stepped away from the autopsy table and pulled off his plastic gloves. “What’s up?”
“She needs a closer look at my Jane Doe,” Dalton Auster replied.
Lumbering across the morgue, Hank grabbed a fresh pair of gloves and winked at Jessie. “I thought they ruled Jane a suicide.” He pulled on the gloves with a distinct snap, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Why do you insist on spitting into the wind? Don’t you have enough to do without manufacturing work?”
“You don’t believe it anymore than I do, so why are you busting my balls?”
Jessie returned Hank’s wink as they approached the body lockers. Provoking her ex-partner was a long standing pastime for her and Hank. This easy camaraderie was one of the few things she missed about her job since leaving the police force two years before. Dalton jerked open one of the silver doors and pulled out the sliding tray. The insubstantial shape beneath the sheet made Jessie’s mouth go dry.
“Cause of death was loss of blood from wrist lacerations.” Hank lifted the sheet and exposed Jane’s right arm. Carefully rotating the slender limb, he displayed one of the wounds. “Each end of the laceration is curiously rounded as if two puncture wounds have been joined. Someone was playing connect the dots and I don’t think it was Jane.”
“What caused the puncture wounds?” Jessie asked. “The curve is much too pronounced for a needle.”
“More like a nail,” Dalton agreed.
“I don’t know and no one is curious enough to let me find out. She’s a nameless suicide, case closed.”
Jessie stepped closer to the extended table and lowered the sheet covering the victim’s face. Her breath hitched and her stomach knotted. Two years in the ‘burbs has made you soft. Jane’s smooth skin stretched over delicate features, beautiful even in death. Mid-teens if she was lucky, her life snuffed out before it fully formed.
“She didn’t look like this when they brought her in,” Hank said.
“She was all gothed out. Black lipstick, heavy eyeliner, makeup so pale it was almost gray.”
Jessie grinned at Dalton. “When did you become an expert on fashion trends?”
He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hank brings out the smart ass in you.”
“One of my finer qualities.” Hank chuckled and headed back to the autopsy table.
“Give me a few minutes with Jane and I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Dalton shoved his hands into his pockets and averted his gaze. At six foot four it was hard for Dalton to look boyish, but this expression rolled thirty years off his street-roughed exterior.
Jessie easily guessed the cause of his discomfort. “No one knows I’m here.”
His bright blue gaze shot back to hers. “This case is closed. I’ve been ordered to move on. It’s best if no one but Hank knows you’re back in town.”
“No problem.” Dalton was the self-appointed champion of lost causes. She’d always loved that about him. “I’ll take a cab to your apartment and start digging through the file.”
“You’re the best.” He glanced at the body, his brow furrowed, lips tight. “I’ve worked homicide for eight years. Why won’t this one leave me alone?”
“They’re taking the easy way out and that pisses you off. Now, get back to work.”
He nodded and left her alone with Jane.
Clairvoyance, intuition, ESP, there were many labels for Jessie’s ability and she wasn’t comfortable with any of them. She didn’t consider herself psychic. She didn’t talk to the dead. Years of mental discipline and arduous physical conditioning had made her more sensitive to certain things than other people. It was nothing more metaphysical than that.
Hey, right. You picked this up at the police academy. Admit it, Jessie, you’re a freak. A smile curved her lips. Dalton was right; Hank brought out the smart ass in her.
She focused on Jane and a shiver raced down Jessie’s spine. Could she really put herself through this again? She’d chalked up her first few impressions to instinct and experience, but the images became too predominant to explain away. So, she’d accepted her gift. And her fiancé bled to death in her arms. Two days later her brother died from injuries sustained in the same shootout. Jessie tendered her resignation. No cop could be effective if they continually doubted themselves and Jessie had lost faith in her abilities.
Pushing back the past, she placed one hand on Jane’s forehead and the other hovered over the wound on Jane’s wrist. Jessie closed her eyes. Darkness enveloped her. This utter nothingness had become familiar. Often the vacuous space was all she’d sense when she touched a victim, but sometimes there was more.
Who were you? Who did this to you?
Stubbornness drove Jessie deeper. She searched for echoes, fragments of the life now absent from this empty shell. A pinpoint of light appeared in the darkness and with it the faintest tingle of awareness. She heard shallow, panting breaths as a vanquished soul surrendered.
The breathing grew stronger, deeper; the struggle intensified.
Sensation vacillated from pain to pleasure, then back to pain, a sustained burning agony that dragged a groan from Jessie’s throat. Her nipples tightened and her core clenched, empty and aching. Jessie shuddered violently. Primal sexual hunger pounded through her veins.
Frenzy. Lust. Overwhelming and ravenous.
Woven through the demanding emotions was a delicate thread of despair. Images swirled and tumbled, remaining muddled and unfocused. Naked and trembling, Jane wrestled in a tangle of bodies and grappling limbs. Terror gripped her, yet she was undeniably aroused. Hands, fingers, and mouths skimmed her flesh and incited her desire.
Violet haze burned through the darkness, enveloping Jane’s body in a sparkling cloud. Suspended within the purple fog, Jane writhed and arched. Agony or ecstasy, Jessie couldn’t tell. The violet mist divided, swirling around Jane’s arms, encircling her wrists. Faster and faster the vapor spun as Jane’s screams echoed through Jessie’s mind.
Pounding.
Music distorted within her mind; a rumble more vibration than sound. A velvety voice caressed her. She focused on the elusive, familiar timbre, the seductive rasp. She knew that voice, didn’t she?
Laughter and the roar of a crowd. Not a crowd, an audience…
Jessie gasped and stumbled back, pressing her hand to her throat. Her pulse thumped against her fingertips, echoing the tempo of the song. The sound receded before she could identify the artist, but the exercise hadn’t been in vain.
She opened her eyes and whispered, “Bellita.” Jane Doe’s real name was Bellita Viejo.
|
