Black As Night (Book #2)
“He says he will break anything you try to keep pure, brother…”
Forensic psychologist Miri Fox travels across the globe when her now-employer, psychic detective, Quentin Black, calls from a police station in Bangkok and asks for her help.
She arrives to find Black undercover inside a gang of local criminals, determined to discover which of them is killing street children and ritualistically burning their bodies inside Buddhist shrines. But Black isn’t the only one with an interest in the crimes, and soon his investigations get the attention of the local sex traffickers, along with a crime syndicate out of Russia that doesn’t appreciate his meddling one bit.
When Miri shows up to help, she manages to catch the attention of all the wrong people. Events quickly spiral out of control…until Miri soon finds herself the hunted.
BLACK AS NIGHT is book #2 in the paranormal mystery romance series starring brilliant but dangerous psychic detective, Quentin Black, and his partner in crime, forensic psychologist, Miri Fox.
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Running footsteps echoed hollowly along the stone corridor, loud in the night’s silence.
Not the barefoot running of monks in saffron robes––these were booted feet, the feet of soldiers. Or at least of people who shouldn’t be here, not in the middle of the night, not in one of the holiest places in the Old City, where residents came every holiday to light incense and murmur prayers. The desire to cleanse oneself of the dirt and corruption that surrounded all humans in the day to day remained universal, it seemed.
So was the desire to pretend that however bad it might be, it was worse somewhere else. It was always worse somewhere else––anywhere else.
But it wasn’t really. Worse, that is.
Better hidden maybe. Easier to ignore in the day to day. But the same fundamental rot permeated all. No one was exempt.
He looked down the length of a massive golden statue, reclining on a raised platform. Forty-six meters long, it shone in the moonlight through the open wooden shutters of its dedicated chapel, blue light reflecting on gilded gold skin. Mother of pearl and black stone inlays in the soles of its massive feet glinted like stars at the end of its supine posture. Swallowed by shadow, the details of its gilded hair and mouth and the contours of its face hung in silence far above where he stood, out of reach of the moon’s glow near the roof of the steeply peaked building.
The image was iconic…awe inspiring, even now, in the dark.
What many forgot, however, especially Westerners visiting this place, was that this was a master depicted during death.
It was a luminous, golden shrine to death.
The same death that frightened all animals lived here––whether one wished to believe in enlightened death or not. The statue filled all but a tiny walkway around it inside the viharn, or chapel which housed it, a gesture of respect to that fear.
The sound of footsteps grew quieter in the dead of night as his pursuers left the sanctity of the area around the main temple. He could still hear them, along with the occasional shout, the excited rattle of words in another language.
A gunshot went off, but it wasn’t aimed at him.
He could smell the smoke too.
The fires burned, glowing at the horizon in the distance.
They would all burn, wherever he went. But they would never catch him.
He was a ghost.
He was already disappeared.