The . . . Gift? The moron probably didn’t even believe in psychic talent. It was real. Very real. He had a bona fide psychic standing before him, and Joss came with the freak gift of all freak gifts.
He was a mirror—he mirrored the gift of whoever he’d last connected with—partnered with.
And the last person he’d partnered with had been one of the telepaths on the special task force. Eyes slitted, Joss stared hard at Cap and caught a rush of thought. Current thoughts, recent thoughts, all of them coming together—organized chaos settling inside his mind, like they were just as much a part of Joss’s brain as Cap’s.
“Motherfuck. I should have picked the old broad. She just wants to hear the same garbage old bitches always want to hear, but I get so tired of that tripe. This guy looked like he’d be more fun, but he’s not going to do a damn thing . . .
“If tips are good tonight, I’m gonna call Candise—she’s going to blow me so hard to make up for shortchanging me last time.
“Damn it, we need to get moving. If it starts to rain, half of these idiots will whine about a refund . . .
“Why in the fuck couldn’t there have been any decent girls on this one . . .”
The wind grew sharper, colder. Lifting his face to it, Joss breathed it in. “Do we really need to stand around here while you try to play armchair psychologist, Cap?” Joss said. “I came out here to see the cemetery—I wanted to do the night walk through, and the only way to do it is with you. If it rains before we get through it because you wanted to chatter, I’m going to ask for my money back.”
Something ugly flickered in the man’s eyes.
Joss stared him down, and as the guide turned away, he smiled.
* * *
HE couldn’t get inside.
But he didn’t need to.
Just standing out in front of the little family mausoleum filled him with the strangest sense of peace, even as it flooded him with urgency.
When Joss was here, he didn’t hear her screams.
But he needed to find her . . . because until he found her, he was only half of who he needed to be.
He didn’t hear her screams, but he could remember the echo of her laughter.
The soft murmur of her voice, even if he couldn’t follow the words.
Here, he felt like he was closer to her.
Amelie . . .
Sighing, he sat on the single, small stoop and ran a hand down his face. Lost in the shadows, he rested his head against the column behind him and looked toward the door. It was dark and he couldn’t read the little plaques over the door, but he knew them.
Amelie had died first.
A few years later, her parents had passed on.
There was no other family. Just the parents, their daughter.
His Amelie.
He could keep watch over her all night. Seated there on the stoop in front of a mausoleum of a family long gone, he felt more complete than he did at any other time in his life.
And he could have stayed there, happily, for hours. Forever, even. But his phone intruded, vibrating in his pocket.
Joss ignored it, pulling to mind the memory of her face. He knew her face, had dreamed of her for so long. Longer than he could remember.
He’d had her face in his dreams for far longer than he’d known her name, but he knew her face, knew her name . . . knew that she’d cried over him. Once . . .
Eyes closed, he thought of the plaque that bore her name.
AMELIE CARRINGTON
BORN APRIL 1, 1870
DIED APRIL 1, 1890
Died on her birthday, twenty years . . . to the day.
Amelie.
The name was a song in his mind.
It whispered to him, called to him. And it had ever since the first time he’d seen it, back when he’d just been a kid, his first year in college, stumbling through here on a dare with his friends.
It had been pure chance that he’d found this place. He’d stumbled onto the porch, ended up much like he was now. And he’d looked up. Seen her name . . .
And it hit him.
Chance.
And fate.
Because he’d found the woman he’d dreamed of for so long. The dreams hadn’t started here. He’d always had those, but seeing her resting place had ripped open a hole inside him, like tearing open a floodgate.