Free Edge of Seventeen by Cristy Rey Page B

didn’t know
how to do this, and given a lifetime of practice, she had developed
quite the skill. Whatever weaknesses she had, she’d learned to
discover and manage, and her strengths had blossomed in the
process.
    Softly, Sunday flattened her palms on the
cool kitchen window and took a slow, deep breath to relax. She
closed her eyes and created a blank canvas in her mind. Sweat
beaded on her forehead as her grip around her psychic shields
loosed. Instantly, millions of thoughts, feelings, and expressions
pummeled her consciousness. The initial onslaught always seemed the
worst part of the ordeal. Suddenly opening herself up to the energy
around her meant it all barreled in at once. Like a boulder dropped
into a fast-running river, the waters crashed over her, and if she
didn’t catch her breath quickly, she’d drown.
    Jaw clenched and squeezing her eyes tightly,
she braced herself and breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
    Battening down the hatches wouldn’t work. If
Sunday wanted to gather information, accessing the psychic memory
of the space was essential. She had to open herself up and let the
energy flow through her. Like the pro that she had once been,
Sunday needed to be the conduit and the conductor. She
visualized the stream breaking around her. The rapid current tore
past her too quickly for her to make sense of what she was seeing.
She needed to pull herself together if she wanted to take a reading
of the house.
    Her fingers cramped, and Sunday pressed her
hand against the glass again, firm in her resolve.
    “Show me,” she whispered. “I’m looking for a
threat. Show me the history of this place.”
     

CHAPTER
TWO
     
    The bartender held the photograph in his
hand, carefully scanning it for details that could spark some
recollection. After a minute, he laid it on the bar and pushed it
back to the barrel-chested man who had handed it to him in the
first place. Crow’s-feet crinkled the corner of Cyrus’ eyes as he
glared at the bartender.
    “She’s hot, and I’d like to think I’d
remember a good looking girl like that. Truth is, man, she can be
any one of these chicks.” He fanned over the space around them.
    A muscle in Cyrus’ jaw popped, and he
slammed his hand onto the countertop and pushed the picture back to
the bartender.
    “She’s changed a bit. Check again,” he
challenged.
    The bartender’s fingers trembled as they
flitted with the edge of the photograph. After another long look,
he shook his head.
    “Sorry. I wish I could help you, but I
can’t. What makes you think this chick would be here anyway?
Where’d you say she was from?”
    “I didn’t.” Cyrus rubbed his beard and
breathed out a hard sigh.
    “She your girl?”
    “Nope. She’s no one’s girl.”
    He snatched the photograph back, sneaking a
quick glance at it before shoving it into his chest pocket. He
scanned the bottles on the shelf behind the bartender.
    “Get me a whiskey. Make it a double.”
Through the mirror behind them, he saw Angel chatting it up with a
pair of lounge flies. He jutted his chin at the mirror. “And
whatever the Hell those girls are having, get them a round.”
    In the last few years, Cyrus had visited
more cities than he had in his whole life prior. Each time, a lead
took him somewhere, and then a new one led him somewhere else. The
search for the Incarnate had gone on far too long, and it was
wearing thin. Intermittently, he came across some new intel, but
just as soon as he’d follow the lead, the trail would go cold. This
latest photograph was a recent acquisition. Outside of the
photographs he’d been collecting, Cyrus hadn’t laid eyes on the
target for almost ten years.
    Cyrus had hardly finished his drink when
Angel strode up behind him and shoved a brunette into his face.
With his arm around her friend, Angel winked and told him that
their dates didn’t intend on spending the night at the bar. All his
thinking of the Incarnate had given rise to a dangerous need. An
angry erection