a Touch of Ice by L. j. Charles

and the peace and absorbed the strength of the earth with every step.
    Until I turned a corner of the house and bumped smack into a hidden alcove.

Six

    There’s nothing like an unexpected corner, and damn if all of those things I didn’t want to feel—violence, fear, greed, desperation—started creeping in, suffocating me as I approached the alcove and the stairway leading to Mitch’s third story.
    Decision time.
    Was I going to brave the stairs or get reinforcements?
    Brave versus Incredibly Stupid. My trepidation didn’t come from the ESP part of me. It was a side-effect of watching too much television and reading thrillers. What woman blindly stomps up an unknown staircase, by herself, when she’s been thoroughly trained by the media that it puts her in the too-stupid-to-live category?
    Apparently I do.
    The negative vibe deepened as I continued up the stairs, threatening to smother me. I pushed through it with a deep breath. The only reason I kept going was because I knew it was okay. No prickly neck phenomenon warned me away from death and dismemberment. Or worse.
    Violet would probably say my internal warning system was broken, but I had to keep going. My logical mind didn’t like this one bit, and I would definitely take it up with my curiosity later—when I was able to calm down enough to have a rational discussion with myself.
    I got to the top of the stairs and took in the picture-perfect rolling hills—so many shades of green blending into each other—that disappeared into unending blue sky. Unlike the pounding in my chest, the view was serene.
    One more deep breath and I would turn to look at the house, well, maybe a few breaths. Really, I couldn’t put this off any longer. I turned away from the view and crossed the expanse of deck toward the house. Mitch’s living space was displayed in front of me, not the more formal part we had all been wandering around downstairs, but his home. His lair, the private space where he worked, created, reflected and lived, stretched behind a paned-glass door.
    The room was trashed.
    A long sofa and deep, cozy chair were turned over, the comfortably worn, sun faded, red canvas cushions had been slashed and stuffing spewed across the floor. A well-loved, threadbare oriental carpet rested on the wide plank pine floor, and a huge worktable, dumped on its side, showed stains that were strangely right, almost artistic—a jolting contrast of peace and violence.
    I was looking at a crime scene, so I pulled my sleeve over my fingers before I touched the doorknob. An image of three men creeping up the stairs passed across my mind. I shuddered with the intensity of the vile energy surrounding them. It clung to the air, making it hard to breathe. I turned, my movements cautious as I approached the deck railing and touched it.
    So had Mitch.
    This was where he was standing when they tackled him and beat him. It made me queasy, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. My belly settled, but my nerves still twanged on high alert.
    Mitch had tried to protect himself.
    Unsuccessfully.
    His pain slammed into me, and I focused on the horizon until I could grab a full breath. Mitch was alive. I knew that, but he was hurt. Badly. I straightened my spine, tensed my muscles, and touched the railing with the single intention of learning where they’d moved him. Nothing. I couldn’t get past Mitch’s pain. It permeated the wood, not leaving room for other, more subtle clues.
    “El?” Violet stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips, shades dangling from her fingers.
    “Un-huh.” I barely managed a mumble.
    “What did you see?” She gave me a long look, then pushed by me to climb the stairs.
    I grabbed her arm. “No, don’t.” My voice wobbled in rhythm with my nerves. Crime so isn’t my forte. Especially when it’s connected to the first man, ever, who didn’t run from my ESP fingers. She glared, planted her sunglasses on top of her head. “Talk.”
    “Okay. It’s