Whispers After Death: A military psychic thriller (Mind Stalkers Book 3) Read online

  WHISPERS AFTER DEATH

  REILY GARRETT

  Acknowledgments

  To Siobhan Caughey, for reading through my rough drafts. Your perceptions are spot on and always appreciated in delving into a character’s mind. First drafts are always the roughest, but is also where changes in a character’s direction take root.

  To Rosie Amber for an in-depth assessment of character and plot, thank you for all your help. You can find her blog and services at rosieamber.wordpress.com/beta-reading-service.

  To my readers, each one of you who selects and reads one of my books, thank you for the opportunity to share my work. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review. They are the best way to help your author share her work.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mind Hunters

  Reily’s Books

  About Reily

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “Kendra Lea Bower, ’bout time you got your scrawny ass down here. You been helping Father McKinley at St. Marks again?” Daeron’s rhythmic foot tapping signaled his pre-performance adrenaline rush, complete with the all-too-familiar hand gesture asserting, “Today would be nice.”

  “Yeah. He’s still ragging on me to stay there.” Kendra darted up two steps at a time, her beloved and battered acoustic guitar thumping against her back and snagging her hair.

  The source of trepidation, a wary foreboding sandwiched between hope and confidence, dampened her mood.

  “Maybe you should pray for patience, Daeron.”

  Their band manager, Wes, had indicated this might be a good break for them but remained stingy with details except the caveat of entailing a short night, more like an audition.

  Money equals food in our stomachs.

  Jutting up from the serene landscape, immense castle-type walls portrayed a primeval struggle between the virtuous and immoral, the results determined by each individual passing through the arched gate to hell.

  Deep-set windows on either side of the wood-plank doors beckoned the intrepid to press a curious nose against the smoked glass and bear witness to the activities occurring within the darkened interior. Wes had also warned them this club was like none other, his ironfisted grasp of details something no one could dislodge.

  “If I prayed, it’d be for the strength to toss your sorry ass in the sea.” Slightly crooked front teeth gleamed white against Daeron’s sun-coppered skin to give him a certain backwoods charm. Aside from the worn threads, no one would suspect him to number among the teaming homeless.

  Impatience stiffened his solid frame as he stood by the massive door. He was always game to try new things, willing to tempt fates who tossed them enough curves to enforce a demeanor exceeding his twenty-two years. A soft wash of silvery moonlight filtered through the adjacent oak leaves to add a layer of mystery which lacked definition.

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to stay there, you know.” A lopsided smile softened his admonishment.

  “Hey, you won’t, so don’t hassle me. What is this place anyway, a special retreat for the knights of old? How’d Wes get our first gig in a medieval joint like this? It’s making my skin crawl.” Kendra hesitated at the top step, doubt and curiosity warring for dominance.

  “Wouldn’t say. But, it’s five hundred bucks. A hundred for each of us tonight, then less thereafter, but its steady work, which means a steady supply of food if you don’t keep giving half of it away.” Daeron yanked on the iron door handle to reveal a wide antechamber lined with assorted jewel-toned tapestries, each draped over tightly mortared blocks behind gleaming silver suits of armor.

  Lifelike silver-plated figures dared the stouthearted to enter, lest some dark prophecy from within awaken to enslave their will.

  “If you want to sleep in a real bed and not a condemned building tonight, you tickle the ivories.”

  Inside the door, a bull-necked man in black jeans and t-shirt nodded a greeting as they passed.

  Focusing on music lent clarity of purpose despite her world having plunged into hell in the aftermath of tragedy three years prior.

  The band members touting her a strong-minded street rat belied the contradictory evidence, her heartbeat resembling castanets flavoring Spanish music. Stoicism was a trait not yet perfected and, like any art, needed practice.

  “Yeah, yeah. Just so they’re not sacrificing virgins…”

  Three men in dress slacks and pressed shirts stood near the end of the vestibule, each turning to give her a brief head-to-toe perusal which morphed into blatant interest. Of the three, the closest broadcast a curiosity understood all too well, a shark sensing prey in murky chum waters.

  “Not likely, asshats.” Words mumbled under her breath didn’t catch the predator’s attention.

  “Ha! I knew it. That’s why none of the guys have put any moves on you.” Daeron’s innocent comment drew intense looks, inquisitive, like heat-seeking missiles locking onto target. Her incrementally swelling anger.

  In silent disgust, she named the first prick Saltie, reminiscent of salt water crocodiles, the largest of the reptile species.

  “As if I’d fall for one of my own rat pack.” Her playful bicep punch drew a round of silent chuckles from the sudden admirers. “I prefer a man, thank you very much.”

  “That’s our girl. Just chafe in that chastity belt ’til you find the one.” Daeron exchanged greetings, scowling in the face of the men’s appreciative grins.

  Inhaling a slow, deep breath, she let her gaze warp around the room, taking in the walls of impressionist art, couches lining the perimeter, and tables in the center bearing candles.

  “Fuck me sideways. What is this place?” She didn’t belong in the building, much less on its stage. “What the hell is Wes playing at?”

  Understanding came too late that she’d walked into a trap with no clear escape. Daeron’s second rule came to mind. Never enter without first scouting the exit.

  “Hey, no cause for alarm, cutie. We’re all here to relax and have a good time.” Saltie held out a hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m—”

  “Not interested, troglodyte. Have a good evening.” Kendra wondered if the semi-advanced Neanderthal got the message. A glance at his expression dictated she’d started something, offending a guest within two minutes of arrival.

  His scowl deepened. A touch of crimson infused his cheeks.

  As if sensing her next move, Daeron reached back and stopped her arm reaching for the guitar. “We need to work to eat, Kendra, unless you want to sell this, which I know you don’t.”

  Daeron was right. The guitar entailed the only tangible piece of her brother’s soul in her possession. It meant everything, her lifeline to another time, another world where she and Billy sang wacky, nonsensical melodies until the entire family cried with laughter.
br />   Family and laughter, two things her existence lacked, unless she included the chittering, hissing rats in the abandoned buildings where she slept.

  “I don’t need this shit.” Empty pockets and a bottomless pit of determination kept her rooted in place. She might end up cold and hungry tonight, but her integrity and self-respect would remain intact. No one would ever break her again.

  “Kendra, no. We need this gig. Broke, remember?” Daeron’s frustration radiated out concentrically as a pebble hitting water, each ripple adding a thicker layer of indecision to the air. “Where are you gonna sleep tonight?”

  On a deep sigh, she dropped chin to chest, shaking with frustration. Like a tree that couldn’t bend without breaking, she couldn’t weather the storm. How would she survive?

  “Stop.” The disembodied mandate issued from her left prevented further consequences of her faux pas. “What’s going on?” Deceptively calm, the interrogator’s rough tone left no room for argument.

  It never had.

  Of the two men approaching, the tallest one commanded her attention the same as when she’d been a teenager caught sneaking out of the house. Regardless of time’s passage, she remembered them as family during a different err. Her brother’s best friends, Conner and Marc, had accepted her into their pack.

  In the back of her mind she remembered Conner’s voice, so much like her brother’s, from a period of fanciful dreams and great aspirations, pigtails and ribbons which gave way to eye shadow and lipstick, exciting adventures, and warm smiles.

  Billy followed Conner into the military, consigning her world to a hell from which she’d never recovered. It’d taken years to overcome expectations of a surreal past life.

  Instead, she’d learned to navigate the hazards and pitfalls of open-air living, the real world. Resentment swelled and intertwined with the yearnings of yesteryear to leave her thoughts as gnarled as her gut.

  The weight of Conner’s stare, heavy as a prisoner’s chains, locked her gaze to the floor.

  What the hell is he doing in a fancy place like this?

  The thought of her brother’s death destroying other lives was one she hadn’t conceived. Conner stepped forward, crowding her. His unspoken, unfulfilled demand to meet his gaze preceded a deep rumble from his chest and a small smile to her face.

  She’d always loved defying him to the limits of his strength and sufferance.

  “It’s been a long time, Mongrel. Welcome to Ambrosia. Good to see you.”

  Kendra’s gaze swung like a pendulum between Conner, and others now gathered awaiting the outcome.

  The previous version of Conner wouldn’t have raised his voice to her, but the new and devolved adaptation remained a question mark.

  Score one for the deviant. A deep breath, intended to clear her mind, succeeded in aiding his scent to enhance the band squeezing her lungs.

  Among the bystanders, a top-heavy refugee from a misbegotten makeup counter sneered in regal smugness, sure of her station by Conner’s side. Her verbal footnote of “dregs of the gutter” earned Conner’s sharp visual reprimand.

  “Go.” Conner’s monotone could slice through steel.

  The bottled blonde scurried away amid mumblings of vagrants, beggars, and hobos. If that was his preferred type of woman now, he’d fallen further than anyone could’ve imagined. Another one of Billy’s casualties?

  Wait!

  “You? You own this animated freak show? Conner, what happened to you?” A decade ago, he and Billy had filled her head with fantasies only an innocent could dream, back when sex in a t-shirt carried the easy grace of a natural predator and filled her head with delusions of eternal love.

  “You always talked about owning a sporting goods shop. What happened?”

  Time lent fuel to her imagination. Like a boiler that continued to build up too much pressure, her thoughts skated along the razor’s edge of a volcano. The age-old longing persisted despite current reality’s intervention and the memory of how he had led Billy into the military, to his death.

  “Times change,” murmured with a shrug. “It really is good to see you again. I look forward to hearing you play.” That sweltry intonation could curl an iron bar, yet there dwelt a deep sadness, as if memories pulled him down a road too often traveled.

  An audible gulp. Her mouth opened and closed several times with no sound issued.

  She couldn’t look at him, not when her face flamed with the memories of first infatuation. The disappointment invading her mind now stung the back of her eyelids.

  “Why would you buy a place like this?” It was too much to bear. She needed the quiet and peaceful white noise of the street; wind chimes on someone’s front porch, a car backfiring, a breeze sifting through the trees and blowing the road’s detritus in small dust devils.

  “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

  “Nice place you have here, Mr. Crofton.” Daeron, ever the peacemaker, stepped forward with outstretched hand.

  “Yeah, all it needs is some spider architecture, pointed hats, and a pentacle drawn on the floor. Oh, and I think you’re missing a vat of boiling oil.” Mumbled words lost the bite of her intent.

  “Can’t say spiders do much for me, but I could come up with scented massage oil. I hear women think of it as magic.” Conner’s husky laugh scorched the knot in her throat like melted sand, changing its consistency until acid threatened to spew forth.

  “Looks like a damn interesting club you have here, very niche.” Daeron’s comment would earn him an all-out brawl later.

  Freaking traitor. Men always stuck together.

  After a moment, Conner’s words sank in.

  No.

  It seemed bystanders thought her a comedian or imbecile, their laughter creating more blazing heat to encompass her face.

  Marc, brother of her current tormentor, took pity as he stepped forward. “Hi, Kendra. It’s been a long time.”

  Sympathy radiated from him in waves to envelop her in a maelstrom of cloying, sickly sweet flashbacks she couldn’t handle. Of the four brothers, he’d been the nice one.

  “Hi, Marc. Let me guess, you’re also part of this zoo?” Regardless of their intended sincerity, she couldn’t rest her gaze on either man.

  “You got it, hon. Ready to work? I’ve missed hearing soft jazz.” Marc stepped forward to offer a hug yet stopped short of contact.

  No. She couldn’t abide the company of men whose lives had been twisted by pain and despair, the last men to see her brother alive.

  Conner’s presence ushered Billy’s last words to fill her mind before ditching her for another military stint, his final tour. “You’re being selfish, Mongrel. I need to do this, protect my brothers. You’ll be safe here, but they won’t be unless I go back. When I return, we’ll start a new chapter in life, together.”

  She got a new version of life, all right. Just not the one they’d planned.

  The physical ache in her heart wasn’t relieved with the pressure of fist against chest. She turned and ran, as she’d always done when the agony of memories washed over her. She would never again allow anyone to witness her suffering.

  Chapter Two

  “Kendra, stop!” Conner’s voice had commanded Special-Ops forces during dozens of top-secret missions. Assignments her brother had followed to his last breath.

  But not her, not anymore. An arid mouth prevented her from licking her lips or offering a retort. The words swirled in her mind like particles of sand in a dust storm. She no longer accessed common ground from which to communicate.

  Several gasps from onlookers drifted to her ears as she bolted back through the hallway and snatched the heavy, oak portal open. The door attendant greeted an incoming guest who stood frozen with mouth agape, not unaccustomed to women fleeing the perverts within.

  Cold wind blasted her face yet failed to clear her mind. True escape would never come while she drew breath. No one could outrun their inner demons.

  Down the steps and over the dewy
lawn she flew, skidding before botching a leap over low shrubbery bordering the parking lot. Landing on hands and knees cost precious seconds, time she couldn’t afford. Instinct told her he’d chase.

  He’d always been fast.

  Her feet scrambled for purchase before traction yielded distance. With the woods twenty yards away, she heard his booted steps over the blood roaring through her veins right before he tackled her to the ground.

  Panic seized her with the force of her landing. The abrupt jarring depleted her lungs of air. Desperation curved her hands into claws to gain traction in the slick grass despite the fire shooting through her right wrist. The heavy weight of a large male body on her thighs thwarted her attempt to stand.

  Even before he spoke, she knew it was Conner. It was always Conner. Though she wouldn’t hurt him with it, if she hadn’t lost her precious knife months ago, she’d give him second thoughts.

  “Damn it, Kendra. You will listen to me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  His tone settled the matter in one of their minds.

  Fighting someone with a hundred-and fifty-pound advantage didn’t shake her perseverance for freedom until his weight once again bore her flat despite her attempts to twist free and landing an elbow jab to his midsection.

  Jerking her head back to connect with his nose equaled her next miscalculation. He’d moved.

  She froze when his teeth clamped down on her neck. He’d always been one step ahead, just like now, anticipating her moves and countering them with little effort.

  “Settle down, Mongrel!”

  His muttered admonition breathed new strength in her scuffle for independence.

  A simple task in using his weight to stifle her movements, it likened to a hefty chunk of steel squashing a fly.

  With a disgusted groan, she relented and played possum to create a false sense of submission. He had a lot to learn about the new and improved mongrel.

  Once his weight lifted, he still bested her struggle to shake him off. He’d thrown one heavy leg over both of hers, which equated to lying under a tree trunk. The best she could manage was a string of foul curses.