Page 3 of The Bride Wore White

“I am the one who asks the questions,” she said. “Why did you decide to target me? We have never met. We have no connection. What made you decide to kill me?”

Tapson’s mouth twisted in a dreadful parody of a seductive smile. “You are a fraud, aren’t you? Admit it.”

“No, Mr.Tapson. I am not a fraud.”

He tried to release his grip on the crystal and get to his feet, but he discovered that his fingers were frozen to the bowl, locked in place by the electrical charge of the energy she was channeling through the crystal.

He used his other hand to reach inside his jacket and pull out a knife.

She fought down the new surge of panic. He was physically more powerful than she was. Her only hope was to stay in control.

“What are you doing to me?” he shrieked.“Succubus.”

“You picked the wrong psychic,” she whispered. “Or maybe you picked the right one. It all depends on your point of view.”

She tightened her grip on the rim of the bowl and concentrated on the icy currents of Tapson’s dream energy. Deliberately she began to distort and reverse the waves. She sent the wildly oscillating pulses slamming back around the crystal.

Tapson’s mouth opened on a soundless shriek. Unable to release the bowl, he tried to lunge at her across the table, knife in hand, intending to slice her throat. But he could not move.

She was trapped. If she released her own grip on the crystal, she would lose control of the situation. She sent another jolt of disrupting energy through the crystal. She was working on instinct now. She had never before used her talent to try to destroy the energy at the heart of someone’s dreams.

Tapson stiffened violently as if he had touched a live electrical wire.

In a sense, that was exactly what had happened.

Tapson stared at her in disbelief and mounting horror. He began to tremble. The tremors became spasms. The knife fell to the carpet, landing with a soft plop.

“No,” he said. “You can’t do this to me.”

His eyes rolled back in his head. His right hand went limp. He no longer had a death grip on the rim of the bowl—he was incapable of gripping anything. He collapsed on the floor and lay still.

She took a shaky breath and yanked her hand off the crystal. The pain of the psychic burn wasn’t from a physical injury—her fingertips had not actually been singed—but her nerves were severely rattled. She could not afford to succumb to an anxiety attack, not now. She needed to stay focused on survival, because it was obvious her entire world had just been turned upside down.

“Damn you, Tapson,” she whispered to the unconscious man. “I hope you are trapped in a nightmare. I hope you are locked in it for the rest of your life.”

She had to think. She had to concentrate on her next move.

She took a step and then stopped and put a hand on the table to keep from losing her balance. When she had her nerves under control, she made her way around the table. Crouching beside Tapson, she groped for and found a faint, erratic pulse. He was alive, but she was sure he would never be the same.

There was no way to calculate how much damage she had done to his nerves and his senses. The technique of channeling energy through crystal with enough force to destabilize the source of a person’s dreams was highly unpredictable. It was hardly the sort of skill one could easily practice and refine, at least not in an ethical way.

The talent for doing what she had just done was rare, even in a family with a long history of psychics who could read dreams. But the few accounts left by her ancestors who had possessed the ability had been clear on one point—disrupting an individual’s dream energy was guaranteed to cause considerable damage.

First things first. Her own survival was at stake. She had to get rid of Tapson. She could not let him continue to lie there on the floor of her reading room. What if he woke up and was still capable of killing her? What if he never woke up at all?

She briefly considered trying to hide the unconscious man. Even if she could manage the process—doubtful, because Tapson was large and powerfully built—there was no practical way to haul him any significant distance in the busy city.

There was really only one solution to her problem. She would call an ambulance and explain that Tapson had suffered a stroke during a reading. If or when he woke up, there was a good chance he would not remember exactly what had happened. Even if he did remember what she had done to him, he would have a hard time convincing the police she had tried to murder him with psychic energy.

For her part, she had no way to prove that he had tried to murder her, let alone that he had killed others.

Regardless of what happened to Tapson, her reputation would be destroyed if the press got hold of the story. The rumors alone would ruin her. Clients would certainly not be eager to book appointments with a psychic known to have had a client collapse during a reading. That sort of thing did not make for successful marketing.

She did not believe in omens and portents, but this situation was about as close as one could get to a sign from the universe informing her that it was time to move on.

She squared her shoulders and walked out of the reading room into the small reception area. She picked up the phone.

“Hospital, please,” she said to the operator. “It’s an emergency. I wish to request an ambulance.”

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