Page 43 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“Yeah,” I muttered. “She texted. Said the Aunts are there, and they are mixing a spell to weaken him.”

“See? Everything’s moving in the right direction,” he offered a tired smile.

“You can’t know that.”

“No. But you’ve never seen what the Aunts can do.

” He leaned back, eyes soft, but certain.

‘They’re incredible. One time, I had a poltergeist bound to me—trashed every space I entered.

Made me look like a fraud. Just when I thought I’d lose my entire rep as a paranormal investigator, Katie brought her aunts to my place.

They banished it in under twenty minutes.

Only thing I was left with was this.” He tugged up his sleeve and removed his watch, showing me a jagged scar wrapped around his wrist, like something had scorched a bracelet into his skin.

“I didn’t know poltergeists could do that,” I whispered, the fear of the unknown flooding my veins. “We have to get Uncle Silas out of Graham. Now.” I shot to my feet, halfway ready to bust down the interrogation room door.

“Maggie, wait!” Derek grabbed my arm, holding me back. “Your uncle isn’t a poltergeist. It’s not the same. That kind of damage—that was because the thing was attached to me. It could only cause chaos when I was there, so it looked like I was the one wrecking things.”

“And Graham is actually possessed,” I said, the words tasting like iron.

“Exactly. His symptoms won’t look like poltergeist activity. They’ll look like something else.”

“Yeah… like mental illness. That’s what the captain will see. And he’s the one who decides if Graham keeps his badge or gets tossed in a padded cell.”

Derek let go of my arm, exhaling hard. “I see how that could be… distressing.”He rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time tonight, he looked rattled.

Graham

Everything inside me felt off—tight skin, fogged thoughts. My neck. My back. My movements. Even the fucking chair felt stiff. And the fact that Nettles backed himself into a corner, leaving me—well, Silas—to interrogate Portia as a test of my detective skills, was just fucking fantastic.

I tried to move—to clench a fist, grit my jaw, something. But nothing happened. I was locked in. As if I was strapped inside a mannequin someone else was wearing, my body moving without my command, words leaving my mouth with a crisp accent I didn’t own, all I could do was spectate.

And I hated every fucking second.

The way he used my body to do as he pleased, take what he wanted. It was so reckless, and if I didn’t get control of him, I’d probably lose my goddamn job.

Portia sat across from me, polished as ever. Her hair slicked back into a bun so tight it looked like it hurt. Her lips painted in a deep rose, eyes calm and sharp. She brought the fancy cigarette holder to her lips like it was an extension of her fingers. I hated how calm she looked.

Silas leaned my body forward, folding my hands neatly on the table, and sitting straighter than I ever did in an interrogation room. It was like a steel bar was shoved straight up my ass.

“Miss Valmont,” he said, that same sardonic smirk he twisted my face into earlier. “You’re looking as radiant as ever. I daresay Port Grey’s fog is kind to you.”

What the hell?

Portia’s eyes flicked to mine, and her lips curled into a faint smile. “Officer Locke. You flatter me.”

I didn’t flatter anyone.

Silas tilted my head. “Tell me, how have you been fairing lately? I heard you’ve taken up a commission for a portrait of one Maggie Maxwell.”

She drew another long drag from the cigarette holder. “I’ve been quite well. Busy as always. The foundation keeps me occupied, and my clients are… varied.”

“Varied,” Silas echoed. “One might say… eclectic ?”

Her smile twitched.

“In the best way,” she replied. “Art attracts all types.”

“I suppose it does.” He leaned back, crossing my arms. “I was thinking of Silas Harney, actually. You remember him?”

The smoke paused at her lips.

“Of course,” she breathed. “He was a… complicated man.”

What does that mean, Portia? Complicated how?

Silas chuckled. My chuckle. But not. “Yes, quite. I was told the two of you were close once.”

“We moved in similar circles.”

“Before or after the incident at St. Sebastian’s?”

Her expression didn’t flinch, but her eyes flickered.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the exact timeline,” she said.

“No?” Silas tilted my head again, studying her. “Strange. I thought you were the last to see him alive.”

Wait—what?

She smiled. “Well, if I were, I didn’t know it. He was quite ill, wasn’t he?”

“Ill.” Silas repeated. “Yes. That’s what they said.”

Portia exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “If you’re suggesting something, Officer, I’d ask you to be direct.”

“Oh, heavens no,” he said quickly, waving my hand. “Just tying up loose ends. Miss Maxwell was recently attacked. We’re simply exploring whether any… unresolved histories might connect.”

Portia arched a brow. “And what does Silas Harney have to do with that?”

“A number of things,” he said coolly. “Including a cane that seems to have gone missing after his passing. It was quite distinctive. Silver-tipped, snakes head, emerald eyes. Sentimental value to the family.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said too quickly.

Silas pulled my mouth into a smirk.

“Of course. Forgive me. These things have a way of turning up… in the strangest of places.”

He let it hang.

Then leaned forward again. “Miss Valmont, is there anyone in your circle—a former donor or client—who might have had a reason to target Miss Maxwell? She’s mentioned some ritualistic encounters recently.”

Portia blinked. Then nodded slowly. “There was a man… Jonathan Belvedere. He used to be a rather large sponsor of the foundation. Very into the occult. Odd man. Always obsessed with tracing magical bloodlines.”

“Magical Bloodlines?” Silas repeated.

“He believed some families carried power in their blood—witches, that sort of thing. I heard he liked to remove the hearts of his studies in some ritual to test for magic. Silas’s name came up more than once.” She smiled again.

Of course it did.

“Do you know anything about this ritual? What it entailed?”

“Officer Locke,” she smiled again. “Do I look like a woman that would mess around with spells and sacrifices?”

“No, ma’am.”

Portia adjusted in her seat, “But I do know Belvedere passed away last year. Funny coincidence… it was a heart attack that killed him. Still, if someone shared his theories, it might be worth looking into.”

“Duly noted.”

I forced the words through gritted teeth, dragging Silas down—just enough—to reclaim my body. My voice was mine again, but barely.”

“Where were you the night of August 24th about 10P.M.?” I asked, tone low and even. I already knew the answer. I’d seen her slip out of the bistro two hours after closing.

Portia lifted her brow, exhaling smoke like she was bored. “Well, I had some business to attend to. Preparations for the bonfire fundraiser and all the usual elbow-rubbing with donors.”

“And where was this business conducted?” I leaned forward, not blinking.

“Oh, at one of the yacht clubs, I’m sure.” She said, like the phrase yacht club was a synonym for alibi. “You know how it is—money attracts more money.”

“And after?” I asked, already feeling the edges of my grip slipping again.

Her smile didn’t flinch. “Officer Locke, I have no idea what you’re getting at. I don’t know what day the 24th even was. But if I wasn’t at the yacht club, then I was at home, Marble Bistro, or Happy Burger.” A small flick of her wrist dismissed them all. “Take your pick.”

My jaw tensed. “What exactly is your business with Marble Bistro and Happy Burger? They don’t exactly scream Bridge to Solace clientele.”

“Well, they cater my parties for one. Occasionally, I stop in with my special requests. That’s all.” She paused to tap her cigarette into the water-filled paper cup the captain had provided.

“Are we finished?” She asked, voice soft but smug.

And that was when I felt it—Silas tugging at the reins again.

I braced my hands on the table. “Don’t,” I muttered under my breath.

But he didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t.

The next words didn’t come from me. Not really.

“Oh, Portia,” Silas purred through my mouth, voice warming. “You always did know how to glide through a room with a story half-spun.”

Portia smiled coyly, but there was steel under that smirk.

Silas leaned back in the chair, settling himself into my body like it was made for him. “I’m just trying to paint a picture. The twenty-fourth. You mentioned a yacht club—but those tend to clear out well before midnight. And knowing you, darling, the actual party’s always after the curtain call.”

She lifted her chin. “I told you. If I wasn’t there, I was at home. Or grabbing a bite. I live a terribly dull life these days.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Silas drawled. “But you and I both know mundane has never suited you.”

Portia’s expression flickered, like she’d recognized that it was Silas speaking.

Nettles finally stepped forward with a pleasant smile and waited by the door. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. We’ll give you a call if we have any questions.”

“Thank you for meeting my request on being as discreet as possible.” She said, rising from her seat.

“Not a problem,” he nodded and ushered her out.

Maggie

My hand was already mid-air when the door opened and Portia stepped out, swathed in luxury—fur, diamonds, velvet—blinking up at me like I’d just threatened her with assault.

“Oh! Sorry.” I dropped my hand, stepping back.

“No worries, darling.” Her voice was soft and smooth. “Portia Valmont. Pleasure.” She extended a gloved hand like we were at a gala, and I was supposed to bow.

I shook it. Her rings clinking against mine. “Maggie.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Ah, yes. Maggie Maxwell. Silas spoke of you often.” Her gaze swept over me. “You’ve got his features.”

“He did? I do?” The words glitched out of my mouth. Was that a compliment?