Sizzle and Burn

his part, Doug was relatively new in town and struggling to establish his business. They needed each other.
    Dressed in a crisply tailored dark gray suit and a pale blue tie, a handsome brown leather briefcase in one hand, Doug looked every inch the professional real estate agent. Sleek, designer glasses framed his pale eyes. His car, parked in the drive, was a Jaguar.
    She guessed him to be in his late thirties. His hairline was starting to recede and he had the solid, well-fed look of a man who, while not yet overweight, had definitely started to put on extra pounds. He had warned her that the gloom-filled house with its aging plumbing and wiring would not be an easy sale.
    “I’ll be right back,” she assured him.
    She couldn’t tell him that she really had no choice now that she had picked up the psychic whispers of a man who fantasized about killing witches. She had to know the truth before she could leave the house.
    “I did a little research and called Phil Brooks after I spoke with you,” Doug said. “He told me that your aunt cut off his pest control service shortly before she, uh, left town.”
    Shortly before I took her away , Raine thought. She curled the hand that had just touched the railing very tightly around the strap of her purse. Shortly before I had to put her into a very private, very expensive sanitarium .
    A month before, Vella Tallentyre had died in her small room at St. Damian’s Psychiatric Hospital back in Oriana on the shores of Lake Washington. The cause of death was a heart attack, according to the authorities. She was fifty-nine years old.
    It dawned on her that Doug probably didn’t want to get his pristine suit and polished shoes dirty. She didn’t blame him.
    “You don’t have to come with me,” she said. “I’ll just go to the foot of the stairs.”
    Please be a gentleman and insist on coming with me.
    “Well, if you’re sure,” Doug said, stepping back. “I don’t see a light switch up here.”
    “It’s at the foot of the stairs.”
    So much for the gentlemen’s code. What had she expected? This wasn’t the nineteenth century. The code, if it ever existed, no longer applied. After what she had just been through with Bradley, she should know that better than anyone.
    The thought of Detective Bradley Mitchell proved bracing. The ensuing rush of feminine outrage unleashed a useful dose of adrenaline that was strong enough to propel her down the stairs.
    Doug hovered at the top of the steps, filling the doorway. “If the light isn’t working, I’ve got a flashlight in my car.”
    The ever helpful real estate agent.
    She ignored him and descended cautiously into the darkness. Maybe she wouldn’t give him the listing, after all. The problem was, neither of the other two agents in town was eager for it. It wasn’t just that the house was in such a neglected state. The truth was that it was unlikely any of the locals would be interested in purchasing it.
    For the past couple of decades this house had been the property of a woman who was certifiably crazy, a woman who heard voices in her head. That kind of history tended to dampen the enthusiasm of prospective clients. As Doug had explained, they would have to lure an out-of-town prospect, someone interested in a real fixer-upper.
    The old wooden steps creaked and groaned. She tried to avoid touching the railing on the way down, and she was careful to stay close to the edge of each tread so that she would be less likely to step in his footsteps. She had learned the hard way that human psychic energy was most easily transmitted onto a surface by direct skin contact but bloodlust this strong sometimes penetrated through the soles of shoes.
    As careful as she tried to be, she couldn’t avoid all of it.
    Make her suffer. Punish her the way Mother punished me.
    The scent of damp and mildew intensified as she went down. The darkness at the foot of the steps yawned like a bottomless well.
    She paused on the final step, groped for and found the switch. When she touched it she got a jolt that had nothing to do with electricity. Burn, witch , burn .
    Mercifully, the naked bulb in the overhead fixture still worked, illuminating the windowless, low-ceilinged space in a weak, yellow glare.
    The basement was crammed with the detritus of Vella Tallentyre’s unhappy life. Several pieces of discarded furniture, including a massive, mirrored armoire, a chrome dining table laminated with red plastic and four matching red vinyl