Page 94 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

WHAT NEVER MAKES IT TO THE REPORT

Graham

I pulled the trigger again, this time hitting the asshole in the center of the forehead. A kill shot. The last time I made one of those was Donovan. Kills like these, the ones that are justified are dangerous—at least for me. If I could, I’d rid the world of all the evil that lurked here.

Not ghosts or demons.

The real evil.

The predators.

The rapists.

The pedophiles.

The serial killers.

The nightmares that tortured too much and got off too easy.

Without thinking, I lunged for Maggie—pulling her out of the way. The guy was massive, bigger than me. He would’ve crushed her if I hadn’t.

Her body jerked under my grip, trembling, soaked in blood and god knows what else. She flinched when I touched her. She didn’t even know it was me. That… that fucked with me more than the kill.

She shouldn’t have been here. Not in this nightmare.

But she was.

Because of them.

Because of me.

The man hit the ground in front of us with a grotesque thud—meat and bone hitting cement in a wet slap. It echoed, almost louder than the shot.

I glanced back.

Entrails, limbs, blood—so much blood. It was a goddamn horror show, designed by someone who didn’t just want control, they wanted obedience, worship, praise.

That someone?

Stepped out from the red lit shadows like she was on a goddamn stage.

She held a small pistol in her right hand. Her heels clicked through the slop like it was a motherfucking fashion show. No flinch. No shame.

“Portia, freeze. Hands in the air,” I grit out through clenched teeth, already aiming.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink.

Her thumb twitched—I heard the click of the hammer pulling back.

“Goddamn it—fucking freeze!”

I’d given her enough warning. Too much, maybe. I couldn’t risk it. Not with Maggie behind me. Not after everything.

The crack of my pistol tore through the air with a loud snap.

And just like that… she was down one clean shot and the bitch was dead. Crumpled on the floor in the mess that she fucking made.

I didn’t feel bad.

Look around.

Christ.

The silence that followed death always louder than the act. Heavy. But this one? It was worse. It was justified. She fucking deserved it and part of me wished she had suffered.

A tiny whimper broke the stillness.

Maggie.

I kicked Portia’s pistol away, holstered mine, and turned. Maggie had backed herself into the corner of the corridor—knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. I dropped to my knees in front of her. Tried to take her hands in mine. But she jerked away—flinched like I was the monster.

Fuck.

Finally, she spoke.

“Did you know I spent almost eighteen years in a bakery?” The words tumbled out of her mouth too fast, like if she stopped talking she’d shatter.

Her eyes were glassy and darting between me and the mess in that room.

“And every time I filled the pastry bag with raspberry… I always thought it looked like blood.”

Her hands lifted in front of her face—trembling, slick, soaked in red. She tried to wipe them on her pants but it only smeared, pulling more from the soaked fabric.

“There’s… there’s just s-so much.” Her voice fractured, but she managed to lift the corners of her mouth into a smile, barely holding herself together.

“Why is there so much? You couldn’t even fit this much in a cupcake.

Or a even a bismark. You know, the donut that’s made to be stuffed.

” She let out a wet, broken breath. “It’s like it’s still coming out.

Like it’s still flowing from the veins . ”

She looked at her hands again, eyes wide and unfocused.

“The blood—it just keeps coming. I—I—I?—”

Her voice splintered.

She was breaking.

Shit.

I’d seen that look before—too many times. It was the look victims wore when the horror was still wrapped tight in their throat. She wasn’t here. Not really. Her eyes passed right through me.

“Hey, hey.” I grabbed her shoulders, firm but careful. “Maggie, Max. Eyes on me. Look at me, Max.”

Her hands were trembling. I took them—small and blood-slick, freezing with the coagulated filth—and pulled her into my chest. My arms wrapped around her on instinct, my fingers threading into her crusted hair.

“It’s me,” I whispered into the crown of her head. “It’s Graham. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She wasn’t responding, not really.

I pulled back just enough to cradle her face in my hands, tilting it toward me. Her skin was cold, her lips parted, and her eyes wild.

“You’re in shock, pretty girl,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to hers. “It’s over. She’s gone. She can’t hurt anyone else.”

I ran my thumbs across her knuckles, grounding her with the simplest touch I could offer.

“Come on, princess. Look at me. Stay with me.”

Her eyelids fluttered, bringing her back. Gone was that distant gaze. Her eyes finally locked with mine— really locked—and she saw me.

“That’s it. I’ve got you.” I repeated.

Then she grabbed me. Hard clutching me like I was the only thing tethering her here. Her sobs broke open against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her without hesitation.

“It’s okay,” I murmured into her hair. “It’s over.”

Eventually, she let go. Her eyes drifted down to her hands, smeared in blood and rose petals. She frowned, scrunched her nose, and peeled a petal off her skin.

“Eww. Can we go home now?”

Before I could answer, a muffled voice rose from my pocket.

“I say, do let me out of here!”

I reached in and pulled out the small mirror we’d bound Silas to.

The moment I flipped it open, a swirl of pale mist escaped, coalescing into his usual transparent self.

Silas wasted no time—he wrapped Maggie in a ghostly embrace like some dramatic Victorian wraith. “It’s been rather insufferable rattling around in his pocket this whole time,” he said, sniffing. “My dear, are you alright?”

Maggie nodded, barely. Then let out the tiniest squeak of a chuckle I’d ever heard. It was brittle. But it was there.

Me? I couldn’t even process any of it. My hands started to shake, hard. Not from fear or anything like that, but from the rush. Like the one you got after taking down a deer. Buck fever. The moment your body realized it could let go, it did.

At least I’d had enough training to know what it was. At least it waited until we were safe to show up.

Sort of safe, anyway.

Because those spirits? The ones that circled the room, angry and unsettled?

Yeah. That triggered something else entirely. That was freaky as fuck, and it brought back a stress I’d spent years learning to bury deep—along with everything else I didn’t want to feel.

Silas drifted toward the threshold, then let out an audible gasp. “My god… what has she done?”

He hovered just above the blood-soaked floor, eyes fixed on the display. On himself.

“I can’t believe she did this,” he murmured, voice cracked and distant. “All these souls… they’re still here.” His head lifted, turning to Maggie. “Do you hear them?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It doesn’t stop. Even if I plug my ears—the wailing—it never stops.”

“It’s not just in your head, Max,” I muttered. “I hear them too.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, pricking at my spine. “They’re still screaming.”

Silas nodded solemnly, drifting further into the carnage. “We need to make it right, my dear. We must summon Portia’s spirit. Only then can these poor souls… set it right.”

I gritted my teeth. “Why is everyone so goddamn cryptic?” I snapped. “Set it right? What does that even mean, Silas? You want me to light a candle, throw a séance, what?”

Maggie winced as she stood, bracing herself against me. Her hands trembled when they touched me, but there was steel under the shake.

“They need vengeance,” she said, voice low but firm. “I felt them—each one. That rage. It wasn’t mindless. It was focused. They won’t rest until they take back what she stole.”

“She’s correct,” Silas added, his tone somber but laced with a righteous thrill.

“If they’re left to drift, their rage will rot into madness. They’ll forget Portia. Forget their purpose. And when that happens, they’ll turn on anyone they come across.”

He drifted back towards his own mutilated body, eyes narrowing with inspection. “And while I am, by nature, a man of refinement and peace… I crave justice. I should’ve seen through her sooner. But I was blind—blinded by the most pleasurable?—”

“Hard pass on the details of your sex life, Silas.” I cut in, grimacing. “We’re on the clock. What do we need to do to finish this before backup gets here? I called it in the second I knew Maggie was inside. Squad’ll be here any minute, and trust me—they are not ready for this shit.”

The scene was fucking grotesque—to say the least. Blood.

Entrails. Roses. Like someone had tried to gift-wrap a massacre.

My stomach had already flipped when I saw Maggie fighting her way out of hell, but the moment I crossed that threshold and caught the scent of rot—I knew this was more than a kidnapping.

This was a ritual. This was a cult-driven empty promise.

And now? I felt nothing.

I watched Maggie and Silas work out their plan like detectives on a case, but I couldn’t focus. My body was here, but my mind was dragging me through time—back to that boarding school, back to the attic, back to her. My Nan. Her fingers cool on my cheek. Electric. Real. Kind.

They said it was a hallucination. They called it attention-seeking.

So they beat it out of me. Made me forget.

I heard my voice, tight and gritted, low and trembling.

“It was all for nothing.”

The words barely left my mouth before my vision blurred with heat. Hot, unfiltered, unrelenting fury. All that numbness? Gone. Incinerated by everything they stole from me. Everything they tried to silence.

And now I was fucking pissed.

They wanted to break the boy who saw the dead? Fine. But they forgot—boys grow into men. And I saw everything now.

It all moved in slow motion. Like the outside world had the decency to hold its breath while mine broke apart.