Page 90 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

TIK FUCKING TOK

Graham

Fucking unbelievable.

Eight hundred bucks to get my goddamn truck back.

Eight hundred!

At this rate, I’d have to start charging for the stripteases at Moon’s. Maybe even pick up a few shifts at Haze. Should’ve just become a bartender—at least then I’d get free booze.

Apparently, when you hunt down the number one suspect in a kidnapping and politely demand answers, they toss you into a cell and tow your ride like you’re the criminal.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, busted knuckles screaming against the leather. Red bled into the corners of my vision.

I know. I know . I shouldn’t have decked Nettles.

But he fucking deserved it.

When someone threatened the only person who had actually made me feel alive in years, I got defensive.

Portia’s act was perfect—innocent, doe-eyed, sugar-sweet.

Fucking bitch.

If they actually did their jobs, they’d see it. They’d see her. But no—better to throw the only officer in the precinct with two brain cells into holding for criminal trespassing and terroristic threats.

Terroristic?

Please.

I’ll show them terroristic.

Now I was back at square one.

I blew through a red light. Some asshole laid on the horn, but I barely heard it over the static roaring behind my eyes.

She was still missing.

And I’d wasted so much fucking time in that concrete box instead of looking for her.

My entire body clenched hard enough to rip ligaments from bone.

They said every minute counts in a kidnapping for a reason.

And they were right.

If anything happened to her?—

If I was too late again?—

I swear to whatever god was listening… I’d burn Portia’s life to the fucking ground.

My grip tightened as I pressed the accelerator to the floor. The road warped—just for a second. Flashes of blue and red lit up motel windows. The hum of the truck’s engine twisted, warping into something else.

Bec and Wren’s laughter.

Then—fractured screams.

I blinked.

The road snapped into focus.

No.

They’re gone.

You’re here, Locke.

In your truck. In Port Grey.

There’s the gas station.

That shitty billboard with the dickweed lawyer who specialized in getting pedophiles shorter sentences.

This wasn’t 2015. Wasn’t Colorado. Wasn’t Wyoming.

I shifted in my seat and swallowed hard, the lump in my throat rising like bile. It took everything I had to say in this moment.

Don’t you fucking dare leave, Locke.

Maggie needs you here.

Look. Harlequin Ave.

Two more streets and you’re on hers.

Two more, and you’re back at the manor.

Turning onto Primrose had become a ritual—same time, same route, like muscle memory.

This part of town was one of the first expansions from the colonial district. All the houses blurred together—identical picket fences, cloned landscaping, even the dogs looked like someone copy-pasted them from a lab.

But then?—

Maggie’s driveway.

The only thing that stood out on this cookie-cutter street.

Red roses bloomed on both sides, winding their way up to the dark green estate. The sight alone kept me grounded.

I was out of the truck and over the fence before the engine even quit—bolting straight to the front door.

Chester let out a startled yowl, launching himself from the foyer’s end table straight into my arms.

“Hey there, buddy.”

I rubbed the spot under his chin—the one that always started his little motor.

“Where is she, huh?”

Chester trilled in response.

“It’s not your fault, little man, you knew a bad guy was there and tried to get him, didn’t you?”

I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then set him down by his bowl.

“I’ll be in the attic,” I told him, already moving… “We’ve gotta find Mama.”

He settled in like it was just another morning. Crunching fish-shaped kibble while the world cracked wide open upstairs.

I opened the attic door.

“Well, well, well, look who finally got out of the slammer.” Derek called from the top of the stairs.

“How the hell do you know that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as I stepped inside.

“When you didn’t come back with Maggie or any leads last night, I figured they got you for doing something stupid,” he smirked. “Looks like I was right. Besides, I was logged in to the precinct, remember?”

“Y’know,” I muttered, “your snotty remarks are almost enough to make me turn you in for this little hacking den you’ve got going on.”

Derek chuckled. “Please. You’d be in deeper shit than I would.”

The second gaming PC was finally set up. Katie completely claimed it—already had it decked it out in her signature neon goth goddess chaos. Stickers. LED lights. Pink skull mouse pad. Even cat-ear headphones.

Silas hovered behind her, arms crossed, watching her every keystroke, until he placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed them tenderly.

I quirked a brow and looked back at the scenes. “Well? Did you find anything with the twelve grand I dropped?”

Katie perked up, spinning halfway in her chair. “We got some local CCTVs—traffic cams, home security feeds, some sketchy motel footage—but so far… nothing solid. Whoever did this? They’ve done it before, and they know how to hide a person.”

My jaw clenched, and I swallowed down the urge to put my fist through the screen.

Maggie wasn’t just lost.

She was taken.

And the clock was ticking louder every fucking second.

“What about Portia’s security?” I asked.

Katie shook her head. “No dice. Her system’s nearly military grade. Borderline paranoid genius level.”

“You’d have better luck hacking the Pentagon,” Derek added, arms folded.

“Not suspicious at all.” I rolled my eyes and sighed, dragging my hand down my face, the frustration clawed at my ribs, pressing harder with every dead end.

Then I said it. The thought that I had since the first time Maggie had that premonition.

“…You don’t suppose we could summon the victims? With a séance?”

Silence.

All three of them froze and stared at me like I’d just asked if we could build a murder robot out of Silas’s bones.

Katie blinked. “Graham… you’re on a two-for-two possession streak.”

Her brows knitted, mouth tugging sideways. “I really don’t think bringing in a bunch of traumatized murder victims is a good idea.”

Derek was already pulling out the candles and smoke-cleansing kit like I’d just suggested ordering takeout.

“I mean… technically, it’s possible,” he said, shrugging. “But you’re gonna need an anchor strong enough to pull their consciousness through.”

Katie stepped in front of me, eyes wide, tone low.

“Graham, these spirits—” she glanced at Silas, “they could be even more dangerous than Mortimer. I don’t know about this.”

I brushed past her concern.

“Maggie can see the memories of the dead, right?”

I turned toward Derek, grabbing the chalk from his hand.

“So maybe these spirits can remember something—anything—that leads us to their killers.”

Silas sighed and adjusted his cuffs.

“I’m unsure it works that way, dear boy. I don’t even recall how I died. I simply woke up… dead.” He waved vaguely. “It’s terribly inconvenient.”

“They might not remember dying,” I said, chalk in hand, already moving to the floorboards. “But they might remember what happened before.”

I looked at them—Derek, Katie, Silas.

“We have to try.”

Derek hesitated, one hand hovering over a bundle of herbs. “We’d need some kind of armor for your spirit. The energy from a séance can?—”

“Every second we waste is another second she could be dead, ” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

Katie flinched, and exchanged a glance with Derek, then sighed. “Alright. I’ll call the aunts. They should know a strong protection spell—keep you from falling into possession again.”

“No time.” I shook my head, jaw tight. “We do it now . If I get possessed again, at least it’ll be while I’m trying to do something useful. ”

With a huff, she brushed past me, heading straight for the tall chest of drawers by the north window. She yanked drawers open, slammed them shut, pulling out jars of herbs, satchels, tiny vials of oil, her movements fast and frustrated.

Derek muttered under his breath, already placing candles with surgeon-like precision, building the circle.

“You know,” he said, without looking at me, “if you get yourself possessed again… Maggie’s gonna kick my ass for letting you.”

I drew a large pentacle on the floor like Derek did every time, blood pounding in my ears.

“If she’s alive to do it,” I said quietly, “I’ll let her.”

“Here.” Derek handed me a small, leather-bound book, already opened to a worn illustration of a pentacle surrounded by hand-drawn sigils. Candle placements, herbs, protective inscriptions—it was all mapped out in neat, ancient-looking lines.

“Draw those sigils outside the pentacle,” he said. “Exactly as shown. One wrong line and you’ll fuck it all up.”

I nodded and got to work, kneeling on the attic floor carefully recreating each symbol in its proper place. My hand shook, but I kept the lines clean.

When I finished the last one, Katie was already there—pulling the chalk from my fingers and nudging me into the center of the pentacle.

“We’re really doing this?” She asked, locking eyes with me.

Her voice was steady, but I could see the fear behind it. She held a small bottle of oil, a bundle of herbs, and a mason jar filled with black salt and something green I couldn’t identify.

“Yes.”

I didn’t blink.

Didn’t hesitate.

“Okay,” she exhaled, voice softening. “Garlic, rue, and bay—into your pockets.” She handed me a clove of garlic and some dried herbs. I stuffed them in my pockets like a damn chipmunk.

“St. John’s Wort and Hyssop oil—hold out your hands.”

I did.

She poured a few drops into my palms, then dipped her fingers in the puddle and pressed them to my forehead in a firm, deliberate motion.

Derek stepped in to do the same. No words, just ritual. Just purpose.

“Now, the salt.”

Katie circled me slowly, pouring the black salt mixture in a clean ring around my boots.

“Once this is down,” she said, “do not cross it. The spirits shouldn’t be able to either.”

I nodded again, barely breathing.