Page 58 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)
THE DISCOVERY OF MORTY PLANCHETTE
Maggie
I wasn’t ready to tell Graham that every relationship I’d been in—minus one—had started because I cast a spell. He didn’t deserve that humdinger, not after everything he’d been through. And he obviously wasn’t ready to share whatever happened back in Colorado. So, I guessed we agreed.
Still… was this leading somewhere?
He did say he wanted to fuck me. That had to count for something, right?
My train of thought derailed the second Chester galloped past us and leapt onto a moss-covered fallen tree, letting out a high-pitched mew.
What the?—
When the hell did he get out?
Was he following us this whole time?
“Hey, buddy.” Graham walked over and crouched in front of him, running a hand down Chester’s back and up along his tail.
Chester leaned in immediately, soaking up every ounce of affection Graham offered, purring like a possessed lawnmower and nuzzling into those big—perfect for my waist—hands like he was home.
God, even my cat was obsessed with him.
“Whoa—Graham. Check out those mushrooms by your feet. It’s like they’re bleeding,” I said, pointing.
He looked down at where his boot had crushed a couple of pale tan mushrooms and carefully plucked one for a closer look.
It was small—maybe three inches long total. The cap was no wider than my thumb, perched delicately atop a slender, creamy stalk.
“That’s… interesting.” I sat down on the log beside Chester and took the mushroom from Graham in one hand, pulling out my phone with the other.
I typed in: small tan mushroom bleeding.
An audible gasp slipped from my lips as the results popped up.
“What is it?” Graham asked, one eyebrow raised, hand instinctively moving to his thigh like he was ready for a threat.
“Mycena sanguinolenta,” I read aloud. “Commonly known as… the Bleeding Bonnet.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered.
My mind flashed back to the spirit’s chant from last night, and I whispered it before I could stop myself:
“…there you’ll find what’s left of me.”
My heart kicked into high gear as I sprang to my feet and scanned the area. Something about this place felt off— not screaming, not dangerous. Just… waiting.
That’s when I saw it.
A small mossy mound partially supported the log Chester and I sat on. Nestled at the top sat three large stones, each about a foot across. All of them blanketed in the same moss and dotted with the tiny bleeding mushrooms.
Grave markers?
I climbed over the log to get a better look, careful not to disturb anything. The air here was heavier, cooler—like the trees themselves were holding their breath.
And then I spotted something else.
Poking up from the dark forest floor, just beyond the stones, was a tight cluster of what looked like Dead Man’s Fingers.
I’d seen them back home in Ohio, sure—but never like this.
These were thicker. Swollen. Almost… reaching.
Their pale-black tips curled ever so slightly toward the stones, like they were pointing.
Or guarding.
A shiver pricked up my spine.
“Graham,” I called softly. “Come look at this.”
He stepped beside me, eyes narrowing as he followed my gaze.
“Tell me those don’t look like fingers trying to crawl out of the ground,” I whispered.
Chester gave a low, uneasy meow and slinked back behind my legs.
The surrounding forest had gone quiet.
No birdsong.
No breeze.
Just the slow, pulsing thump of my heart in my ears.
I brushed away the dirt and leaves, and a blinding flash overtook my vision.
I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded.
Graham vanished from view.
In his place stood Portia, wearing a black trench coat. Her mascara was smudged, her face streaking with tears. She was crying—angry—and ranting. Something about money. How she didn’t have it. How I’d just have to wait.
Only… these weren’t my eyes.
I looked down.
My hands— weren’t mine. They were masculine. Rough. Large.
They reached out and grabbed at her, fingers curling around the brooch she always wore. The same one I saw when I first met her—only now it was intact.
I felt my— his— strength pulling her in. Close. Too close.
Chanel perfume. Menthol smoke. Leather.
Her breath was hot. Bitter.
A croaky, unfamiliar voice tore from my mouth. “Get the money tonight or the entire town will know everything you ever were—and were not.”
Jesus.
It was the strangest sensation—being in a man’s body. No breasts weighing me down. No hesitation pulling Portia in. I could feel the difference in muscle. The raw, undeniable power behind those arms. The presence of… equipment down below that I had no interest in exploring.
But before I could speak again— crack —I was spun around, just in time to see a black-gloved hand wielding a tire iron.
It wasn’t right.
The arm was warped, bent at an unnatural angle. That tool hadn’t been used for car trouble. It had been used to pry, to bludgeon. To kill.
The first strike hit my temple. My skull rang like a bell.
The second strike blackened the corners of my vision.
I dropped to the forest floor.
From the ground, I watched Portia run straight down the same trail Graham and I had walked moments ago.
Then came the third blow.
Final. Crushing.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Deeper than shadow. Deeper than sleep.
And then I gasped—choking on air I hadn’t realized I’d been without—and came back to myself.
“Maggie! What is it?!” Graham shouted, suddenly at my side, panic etched across his face.
I looked down—and froze.
That wasn’t a mushroom I’d been dusting off.
It was a fucking hand.
A corpse’s hand.
“Jesus Christ—!” I yelped, stumbling back. “Ew! Ew! Ew!” I scrambled to my feet, shaking my hand like I could fling the memory off me. But it clung to my skin, every nerve screaming, the clammy feel of rotting flesh still vivid against my palm.
“Oh my god— eww!”
“What?! What?!” Graham jumped back with me, wild-eyed. He clearly hadn’t seen what I had—hadn’t just held hands with a dead man.
I pointed a shaking finger. “I was holding a corpse’s hand!”
The bony fingers jutted up from the dirt, tipped with bits of rotting flesh caked in mud.
“I touched it!” I shrieked. “I thought it was a goddamn mushroom.”
My stomach twisted. Violently.
I turned away from him, slapped a hand to my mouth, and squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to redecorate the woods with last night’s dinner.
“Why the fuck were you touching it?!” Graham squeaked—squeaked—his voice two octaves too high for a man built like a brick shithouse.
“I thought it was one of those creepy-ass mushrooms !” I wailed, still frantically wiping my hands on my jeans like that would erase death.
“Oh, my God—he’s sniffing it! Graham, get him! Chester, no ! You don’t know where that corpse has been, you little sicko !”
Graham
Holy shit!
Maggie was freaking-the-fuck-out.
Going completely batshit.
And honestly? I didn’t blame her.
Her hands trembled, like she’d just stuck them in a light socket, and the look on her face—disgust, fear, and borderline psychotic panic—hit me square in the chest. She turned to me without thinking, burying herself deep in my kevlar vest like she could hide from the corpse.
I pulled her in tight. Her sweet strawberry-vanilla scent filled my nose, grounding me in the moment. My hand found the back of her head, fingers weaving through her soft golden hair. I probably didn’t feel very comforting with all the tactical gear between us, but I’d hoped it was something.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered, even though I had no damn way of knowing that.
She looked up at me through glassy eyes, cheeks flushed pink, and hugged me back. That nearly undid me.
“Hey… it’s going to be okay,” I said again—for her, but maybe a little for me too.
Son-of-a-bitch.
It wasn’t okay. I didn’t know who was after her. I didn’t know who’d killed these people, or why. And that had to be terrifying—not knowing what you did to make someone think murder was the only option.
But I knew one thing:
If I ever got my hands on the sick fuck behind this, I’d enjoy ripping them apart. Slowly. Just for putting her through it.
I’d break every rule in the book for her. And Nettles? He could suck my balls.
I wasn’t going to sit back and let some by-the-book investigation get her killed.
I liked this girl.Hell, maybe more than liked her. I hadn’t felt anything like this since Rebecca.
She didn’t deserve this shit—dead bodies, threats, uncertainty. She deserved peace. A safe life. A fucking fresh start. What a wonderful welcome to Port Grey, Massachusetts.
If this kept up, I wouldn’t blame her for packing up and heading back to Ohio the second Nettles cleared her. Shit, I might even help her load the car… and hate every second of it.
I stepped in front of the corpse, blocking her view.
“Why don’t we head back,” I said, voice low. “I’ve gotta call this in. Forensics needs to get out here before dark.”