Taking Back Sunday Read Free

Witches, and likely, it wouldn’t. If Sunday were going to learn anything about what went on in Vicky and her grandmother’s house, then she would have to use the extrasensory gifts in her arsenal. All energy left a stain. It lived and breathed in the world, seeping from people’s pores and swarming in the air between them. Magic fragranced the air with its residue, and Sunday’s unique gift was her ability to sense and manipulate it. She couldn’t remember a time when she 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