Shattered Shells, the third book in the Moonstone series.
Liliha helps other people by way of a mental connection triggered by her star moonstone ring. In a rare occasion, she doesn't finish doing the job she is called upon to do. There must be a way to find the small-time crook and convince him to mend his ways. Could psychic detecting work?
If the concept interests you, you'll like the novel, Shattered Shells.
Universal link to Shattered Shells: http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00O94OHIY
If the concept interests you, you'll like the novel, Shattered Shells.
Universal link to Shattered Shells: http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00O94OHIY
Excerpt from Shattered Shells, set in Cornwall, UK:
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A blast of the sweet, heavenly scent of attar alerted her to an oncoming vision. She'd be safe under the warm water for the short mental journey. Her sight dimmed. Footsteps alternated with scrapes and faint thuds. Pondering on the sounds, she spun into the swirling aperture.
* * * *
The familiar sensation of enclosure and random thoughts tell me I'm within another body already—a man, judging by the shape of the hand stretched out in front of me to touch a picture. I rely on what he sees to determine our location. The interior of a home comes into focus while we walk along a hall and pause at the doorway.
Our gaze sweeps an area set out in the manner of a typical suburban house in England, with a staircase opposite the entrance.
"Hopkins and Co is a thing of the past. From now on, it's just plain George Hopkins." Our chuckle resembles the recorded sound of a malicious fairground clown.
A bunch of keys hang from the wall papered with stylistic flowers on a brown background. The tag reveals a golden jaguar engraved with the XJ logo. We pocket the jangling cluster.
To probe deeper, I sift his inner dialogue until I reach his underlying reason for this visit.
Prompted, George goes over the memory again to strengthen his purpose. A client had canceled Hopkins & Co's services and switched to Bertie's protection. 'A deal gone wrong as the suits would say. All due to Bertie trying to muscle in. George had worked ... he couldn't say hard. His effort and particular skills paid off. But the crow, Bertie, had flown in to swipe the crust. Well, tit for tat. The boot's full already. The remaining goods will fit in the back seat'.
We walk while he rambles on. Partnerships never succeed. St. Ives is his town. Small businesses and holdings didn't need proper security with him patrolling the streets.
We enter the living room and lift a mobile phone from an occasional table—rough justice for the greedy sod who owned two phones. Tucking the device into our pocket, we swagger toward a pile of electrical equipment and cartons at the rear exit. Our mouth stretches in a sneer at perfect opportunity to get even, now Bertie's away for a two-day holiday.
I whisper, 'Don't do this. A man of your cunning can handle this another way. Think'.
He shrugs off my suggestion as if it's a cobweb.
We push the double doors open. The woodwork shows signs of George's forced entry. A gold ring flashes, engraved with an insignia of some sort. A horseshoe? We lift a weighty box with the ease of an athlete and carry the carton along the tiled drive. After a stumble, we admire our fancy, pointed-toed boots pacing beside the house.
'Leave everything there', I whisper. 'He'll notice what you've done. Returning goods to their right places will be enough of a bother. You don't need to steal them'. I attempt to deter him by concentrating hard. Sometimes mind force works better than whispered words. We stagger on uneven pavement and shift the burden while facing the street.
I use the opportunity to observe the surroundings.
When we reach the pale blue vehicle, we open the rear door, and dump the load on the floor before returning for more items. Soon, we've loaded the luxury saloon with a stereo, television and several more cartons.
'You've proved you can take everything. Settle your grievance with a note. Leave the goods in the car and walk away'.
We slam the door and pause, which makes me assume I've succeeded.
But no. We pace to the front of the vehicle.
Here's my chance to withdraw from him so I can read the number-plate. I concentrate, jerk, and envisage the physical shift.
Despite my effort, he slides in and turns on the ignition.
The engine purrs and we reverse out of the drive with a screech. Our hand reaches for the gear stick. With a twist of the steering wheel, the vehicle roars off to merge with traffic at the junction. We chuckle.
How can I break his obstinate resistance? I remain silent and observant for several blocks, wondering why I'm still trapped within him yet unable to stop his flight.
His thoughts are filled with his role in town. Shopkeepers and businessmen think he's acting the role of protector, yet he simply takes bribes to leave them alone. Nothing big enough to alert the police.
Poised for a final act, he stretches in luxury and admires the way the Jaguar nestles rock-solid on the road.
'Do something with your intelligence to give you pride. Consider making yourself a real security guard for everyone to admire'. I share an illusion of him wearing a blue uniform on his stroll in the town. People smile and wave. I replace the delightful daydream with an image of him in an official role of apprehending a thief.
George chuckles about fooling everyone. Our foot presses harder. The car accelerates to pass another with a surge of power.
I yell, 'Listen to your inner prompt'.
His own thought cuts in. 'Time to give Bertie a call. Rub his nose in how clever I am'. We retrieve the stolen mobile from our pocket, locate the number, and leave a gloating message to the person who answers.
After a surprised, "What?" from Bertie, we disconnect.
A sign flashes by the windscreen with the words, 'Hayle: 1 km'. So close to home? I scrutinize the landscape. On the left, the last rays of sunlight glint over an estuary. Boats float under a familiar bridge.
This is close by in Cornwall.
After the revelation, I'm released to hover over the waterway. I didn't achieve anything. Frustration rides with me inside the churning tunnel.
* * * *
Regaining awareness in the shower, Liliha groaned at her failure. George had discarded suggestions for his redemption.
This had never happened before during a vision. She should have converted his desire to punish his former associate into a joke rather than actual theft. Doubt about not having the fortitude to do the job lowered her mood.
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End of excerpt.
Universal link to Shattered Shells: http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00O94OHIY