Demon Touch

A manila folder landed on the table in front of Elliot, almost spilling her rapidly cooling coffee.

“I’ve got a client for you Tate.”

A broad shouldered man in a worn leather jacket sat across from her and took off a knit cap, running a hand back through messy brown hair. Pale aqua eyes peered at her with twinkling enthusiasm. Entirely too much enthusiasm for 3am, she thought.

Elliot Tate finished chewing her pancake before speaking. “Good morning, Elliot, you look well. How is everything? Just fine, Jackson, how are you?”

“I’m great!” he stated and pushed the envelope toward her across the table insistently. She knew him well enough to catch the slight wink he gave her in acknowledgement of her snark. One corner of his mouth turned slightly up, showing laugh lines. “She came in yesterday, very open-minded. Wants to find her husband’s killer, she said.”

Elliot arched a brow over a steel gray eye, taking the folder. There was a form filled out partly in feminine handwriting, the rest in Detective Saban Jackson’s spiked and illegible scribble. In the bottom of the folder was what appeared to be a watch, but Elliot deliberately avoided taking it out just yet.

“You seem pretty excited about a gruesome murder case,” she said, scanning the pages in her hand.

“It’s a cold case, over three years old. The feds abandoned it for reasons unknown, she says.” He leaned in close, giving Elliot a whiff of his aftershave, sandalwood and spice. Despite herself Elliot felt warm and fuzzy for a moment. “It’s all yours Tate. It’s perfect for you.”

Elliot shook her head. “What can we do if we find the killer?” she asked, watching her volume after getting a strange look from one of the other late night restaurant patrons. “The case is closed, and it’s not like they’ll take ‘psychic girl said so’ as evidence.”

Saban sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Tate saw a waitress inadvertently eye his long jean covered legs that were stretched out under the table. He pretended not to notice and Elliot shook her head, smirking.

Saban had taken a fifteen-year-old Elliot under his wing when her abilities had forced her parents to put her in a ‘facility’ ten years before. Back then, the fact that he was twenty years her senior did not phase the teenager’s crush. She’d gotten over it by the time she graduated high school, but the fact that the man oozed confidence and sexuality didn’t go unnoticed. It simply went mocked if not completely ignored.

“Okay,” she said, after observing the closest thing to a pout Saban was capable of. “I’ll do it. When do you want me?”

He arched a flirting eyebrow at her, then thought better of it, knowing karma would kick him in the ass in the next life if he continued with his geriatric lecherousness toward his young protégé. “This afternoon at the office?”

“I’ll be there.” She turned back to her pancakes. “And you’re buying me breakfast.”

************

Elliot sighed, tossing her keys on the coffee table in her small apartment. The sun was just beginning to rise, setting the sky ablaze with fire yellow and pink. She would have sat to watch it if she weren’t so exhausted. She hadn’t been sleeping well for the last week. A dream she hadn’t had in ten years had decided to reappear seven days earlier.

It wasn’t a nightmare, really. The first time she’d had the dream, was when she was first admitted into the ‘facility’. The doctor had convinced her parents to allow him to perform regression hypnosis on her. He was sure her ‘outbursts’ were attributed to some early life trauma that she’d repressed.

She didn’t see anything about her early life when she was under. She saw hundreds of flashes and visions of things she as a fifteen year old frightened child couldn’t explain. Later, she came to realize that she’d seen bits of the lives of those around her, and possibly bits of lives she’d lived before. None of them stuck with her, none of them lasted more than a millisecond.

…But for the last image she saw. It had been a crate, an old wooden crate in which one of the boards was crooked. And beyond that crate was blackness, dark and inky, and moving. And then the eyes appeared, golden green panther eyes. What was strange was that those eyes, those alien, feral eyes, were the most familiar thing to appear within Elliot’s hypnosis. They blinked once, sent a shock through Elliot’s system, and then she was awake.

And this last image, the panther’s eyes, had been appearing to her at least once a night. Making it impossible for her to sleep for the past week. Nonetheless, if she was going to be in top form this afternoon, she’d better try for a nap at least.

Without bothering to take off her jacket, Elliot slumped onto the couch, sleeping after only a few deep breaths.

***********

The dream came with sounds this time. A growl, then a purr, and then something in between. In her dream, she opened her eyes to see the crate, like usual, but this time, the cat inside must have been pacing. The eyes, though trained on her, moved back and forth at a steady pace, the rumbling from its chest getting louder.

***********

“Did you get any sleep?” Saban asked, eyes concerned when Elliot walked into his office.

She tossed her bag down and fell onto his leather couch, arm over her eyes dramatically. “An hour and ten minutes, thirty two seconds.”

“Hey! That’s this week’s record!” He stood and went to the coffee maker, pouring Elliot a cup of dark black coffee.

She opened one gray eye at him, the other obscured by a shock of auburn hair. “You’re not funny old man.”

He put a hand to his heart and pained an expression. “I’d be offended if I thought you meant it.” He winked at her and held out the mug of bitter brew, sitting down next to her as she swung her legs off the couch.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, his voice dropping all chiding. “There’s still time, I can call and cancel this appointment.”

He caught her eye and put the back of his hand to her forehead, searching for signs of ailment. Elliot fought the urge to laugh. Even after ten years, the quick change from best friend to father figure still threw her a little.

“I’m fine, Jackson,” she said, sipping her coffee and staring out the window at the winter rain. Truth was, she was apprehensive, but since she couldn’t pinpoint a reason behind it, she ignored it.

Ten minutes later a short blonde walked into the office, shaking cold rain off her hands and inadvertently spraying Saban’s desk. She then flashed a brilliant smile at him and offered her hand. “Mr. Jackson, sorry I’m early.”

“That’s fine Ms. Howard, we’re all ready to go here.” He offered a smile even more brilliant and in her sleep dep haze, Elliot thought for a moment she was in a candid camera toothpaste commercial. And when the ‘one of these things is not like the other’ song began weaving it’s way through her head, she wanted nothing more than to drink three more cups of coffee while smoking a pack of cigarettes. “Elliot, this is Rachel Howard, Ms. Howard, this is Elliot Tate. She’s the one I told you about.”

The blonde’s wet hand was offered to Elliot as well as another too bright smile and Elliot had to fight back a snarky remark. “Nice to meet you,” she said, offering a smile of her own.

The test was touch. Elliot’s gift seemed to be better conducted when she touched someone or something. So shaking hands took on a whole new meaning in Elliot’s life.

However, it didn’t always work. When she touched this woman’s clammy hand, she felt nothing more than a tiny hand which desperately needed a glove. Elliot relaxed a bit, and tried to keep her sleep deprived cynicism at bay.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Miss Tate,” she said.

“Call me Elliot.” She nodded toward Saban who was heading toward the door to the waiting room. “He’s going to leave us alone for a little while so I don’t have any distractions.”

Saban turned back into the room. “If either of you need anything I’ll be back shortly.”

The women nodded and turned back to each other, taking a seat on either side of the couch. Elliot heard the bell on the front door jingle, signifying that Saban had left.

“What do you need from me?” Rachel asked, digging into a bag at her side. “I’ve got a ton of Tom’s stuff.”

Elliot shrugged. “Anything of his will work. Preferably anything that he had on him the day he was killed.” She watched the blonde closely for any reaction at the blunt words, but Rachel had her face hidden as she dug through her bag.

“Here,” she said, shaking her hair from her face. “He was wearing this ring,” she said, handing her a platinum band. There were no markings on the outside, and it was cool to the touch. That was all the external info Elliot could grab onto before she was pulled into her vision.

*******

Elliot stood in an unfamiliar living room. The sun’s slant told her it was late in the day. There was a radio playing something ambient in another room. A man walked in, not acknowledging Elliot, going directly toward a desk in the center of the room. He wrote something, scribbling furiously and Elliot tried to edge around enough to read it. A list of names, ten long, half of them had been crossed out. Elliot didn’t get a chance to register the other half before realizing that the man had blood on his hands.

This wasn’t the killer though, this was Rachel’s husband. He wore the ring Elliot currently held in her hand. Why were his hands covered in blood?

There was a shadow in the corner that moved suddenly, wrapping long arms around the man at the desk. Elliot’s vision cleared and she was able to see that the shadow was actually a tall man wearing a long wool coat. He had short dark hair and when he spoke, a smoke-tinged voice that came out in a growl.

“Why are you killing us?”

“You’re unclean, Locke, all of you. Demon blood.” The man who was obviously not holding the upper hand spat the words out in a bitter and angry voice. “If you’re here to warn me, don’t bother. We’re not done.”

Elliot was edging her way around them to get a look at the killer’s face. There was a flash of movement and Rachel’s husband fell to the floor, blood pooling from his ears, nose and eyes.

“They don’t send me as a warning,” said the other man. His voice was dangerous, sending a chill up Elliot’s spine. She was in front of him now, trying to tear her eyes away from the rapidly dying man on the floor.

Like a good little psychic, she began to convert the killer’s appearance to memory. Traveling from his shoes (nondescript leather boots) up long legs covered in dark jeans, there was no murder weapon in the long fingered hand at his side. Black sweater, wool coat, a thin silver hoop in his left ear, dark hair, not short, not long, high cheekbones, and large feline eyes….

…that were staring directly at her.

Golden green eyes seemed to watch her for a breathless moment before they turned from her and looked pointedly at the list the man had been writing on the desk. Elliot saw the man hesitate, and was almost sure he was thinking about looking back at her and saying something, when he turned on his heel and dissolved into the shadows, leaving the room.

Elliot knew she didn’t have much time left, but she couldn’t help looking down at the list on the desk one more time. The first name that jumped out at her was a few names down on the list. Caelen Locke. Rachel’s husband had referred to the killer as Locke. Her eyes were drawn away from the list to a calendar on the desk. One week ago exactly.


AN: I started writing this story a while ago – it was my unintentional first venture into erotic fiction (I promise it gets erotic later on.) I appreciate reviews, and I’ll try my hardest to reciprocate.