Page 87 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

A HOLLOW IN THE PINES

Maggie

The kitchen still smelled like the pie I baked for Graham, but it mixed with the sharp bite of Derek’s spearmint gum, which somehow didn’t clash as much as I would have thought.

The sunlight streamed through the windows, making it feel like it was a beautiful day, when in reality, I didn’t even understand what this day had become. I should have felt safe. But I didn’t.

“So,” Katie said, dragging her finger down a column of names printed on a xeroxed sheet of old city records, “why the hell is Portia’s driver showing up in Silas’s files from a decade ago?”

“Because,” Derek answered, tapping a photo with a pencil, “that isn’t just her driver—it’s Custer’s brother, Alexander.”

“Seriously?” I sighed. “The same Custer that almost?—”

“The very one.” Derek set the paper on the stack of journals.

Katie placed both hands on the table and braced herself. “So what? It’s a small town. Everyone’s somebody’s cousin or mailman or ex-boyfriend?—”

“Sure,” Derek interrupted, “except this ‘mailman’ happens to be linked to a cult that traffics in bloodline magic.”

That shut her up.

I stared at the photo Derek had printed. Alexander Custer. Square jaw. Dead eyes. Same greasy smirk as the man who’d tried to end me.

“Custer, another fucking Custer,” I said, under my breath.

“Then there’s this.” Derek slid another photo in front of me.

In the photo there were four men, and Portia. One man stood at the center, the leader. Portia and Alexander Custer flanked him, and?—

Son of a bitch.

Morty fucking Planchette and some other guy on either end.

Something was painted on the floor in front of them. Leaning in, I squinted, examining the photo closely. It was a symbol—or something, but it was cut off.

I’d seen this before.

Then it hit me?—

I snatched the photo and ran up to the crime board where the photo of my inked ass was pinned.

Katie and Derek followed on my heels. Uncle Silas hovered behind me.

I held the new photo up to the board and pointed, breath catching in my throat.

“It’s the goddamn seal. Right there. On the floor.”

Uncle Silas hovered close. “Quite.” He said, stroking his chin. “Portia never said anything about knowing Jonathan Belvedere.”

“How do you know she did?” I asked.

“Because that—” he pointed to the clean-shaven man in the center, “—is him. That’s Belvedere.”

Of course. The photos we’d seen before had him looking like Rasputin’s evil twin—long black beard, older. But this guy? Bare-faced. Younger by at least twenty years.

“From what we’ve found in the precinct files and the dark web,” Derek said, lowering to his gaming chair like he was ready to battle a boss.

“Belvedere wasn’t just the leader, he pioneered the extraction theory.

Claimed certain bloodlines could amplify magic through pain and fear.

” He opened one of the journals. “This one’s basically a glorified attendance log.

Portia and Custer? Never missed a meeting. They were all in.”

I stared at the names written again and again in looping cursive—Portia Valmont. Alexander Custer. Jonathan Belvedere. Mortimer Planchette.

My blood ran cold.

“But why would they send Lonnie after me?” My voice came out thinner than I wanted it to be, but I couldn’t help it. This shit was getting way too weird for me.

Derek glanced up. “Maybe this whole thing had nothing to do with the money scheme. Or Rocky Sorrentino. Maybe that was just a side trip Portia took.” He gripped the edge of his desk.

“Maybe it’s all because of the extraction theory and they thought you were somehow their key—or their downfall,” he said, leaning back in his chair, glasses slid halfway down his nose.

“Silas dies, you inherit the manor, they knew you’d start poking into old boxes, old files…

You’d find what they’ve been trying to hide for years. ”

“Do you think the cult is still active?” Katie asked. “With Belvedere’s death, they’d need a new leader.”

“Most likely,” Uncle Silas chimed in. “Cults don’t die as easily as their leaders.”

The room felt colder now. Even with the sun painting the attic in a warm glow.

I slipped my hoodie over my head, the one that still smelled like Graham from when he used it as a pillow last night while we went over case files.

I missed his brooding presence, his skepticism, his scowl, the way he’d lean on things, like he was tired just from existing.

I missed that he made me feel like no matter what was coming—I was safe with him. And now, I didn’t have that.

A low growl cut through the attic, sharp and unexpected.

It wasn’t from Uncle Silas.

It was Chester.

My eyes snapped toward the stairwell just in time to see a blur of grey fur bolt down the steps.

“What the hell—Chester?” I called, already moving after him.

He never growled. Not unless something was really wrong.

When I hit the first floor, Chester stood on his back legs, growling and scratching at the back door.

“Shh, no, baby, you can’t go out by yourself.” I picked him up, but for the first time in our relationship, he hissed, then bit me.

“Ouch! Okay, fine!”

I opened the door, and he made a mad dash into the woods.

My shoulders dropped.

Goddamn it.

“Chester!” I yelled, following after him. “Come back!”

Twigs cracked underfoot as I jogged after his swishing tail, darting between the trees like he had a damn mission. I wasn’t wearing shoes meant for this. Or a bra. Or, frankly, any shred of emotional stability.

“Chester, for the love of God, stop running!”

He didn’t.

He skidded to a halt near the edge of the property line, right by the place where the forest got too quiet. Where the light didn’t reach.

And then… he froze.

Ears flat.

That sickening… something’s-about-to-die growl cats only make when shit’s about to get real rumbled out of him.

His eyes locked onto something I couldn’t see.

Then I heard it.

A branch snapped behind me.

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Derek?” I called, but my voice cracked.

Silence.

Then—

Another crack.

Closer.

I turned again, and that’s when the world went black.

A bag, or sheet or—something—slammed over my head, yanking tight around my throat.

My scream caught in my mouth, swallowed by panic.

Arms locked around my chest, crushing the very breath from my lungs as my feet scraped against the ground.

I kicked, flailed, sunk my teeth in—but whoever held me didn’t budge. He was strong. Calm. Determined.

“Let go of me!” I shrieked—but the bag swallowed it, made it useless.

No one came.

Chester screamed—a furious yowl—then claws on skin, a curse, and then a rustling in the leaves followed by meows fading in the distance.

He lifted me and I fought like hell again.I swung, I clawed, I reached for anything—branches, bark, his face—but it was too late.

The woods swallowed us whole.

And I was gone.