The Psychic Within

Chapter 1: Stranger

It started as a mere tingle in my knuckles, before the strange sensation—a kind of prickling, like a sleeping limb waking up—began to climb. It scaled the rough, raised edges of scar that wove across my forearm, then, as it reached the curve of my elbow, the prickling suddenly sharpened. It flared into a burn, deep and scorching, raging through me. It felt like my arm was being consumed by the hottest fire, like the Beast had it gripped in it's great, terrible, flaming mouth once again.

I let out a sharp cry and clutched my arm to my chest. Several people on the busy restaurant patio turned in my direction, their gazes both curious and concerned. Ignoring them, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on thoughts of cool breezes and rushing streams, trying to imagine the water quenching the invisible flames.

This is all in your head, I reminded myself as I tried to will the pain away. It's not real. It's not real.

But, damn, did it ever feel real.

After several moments—that seemed to stretch on like hours—the pain finally began to recede. It ebbed away in waves until the scar was once again numb, lulled back into sleep. With a sigh of relief, I loosened my fingers, leaving bands of white where they had pressed hard into the angry red.

In the almost six months that had passed since Lillian's final assault, the burn she and her Beast had left hadn't healed much. Where my other scars from the battle had faded—from red to pink and eventually to white—this one still looked as fresh and raw as it was the day I woke up in the hospital. It no longer hurt, thankfully, but that was a mixed blessing, because it usually felt nothing at all. The corrupted flesh that twisted up my arm was numb to all touch... except for these bizarre episodes where it felt like my whole arm was burning from the inside out.

A rush of whispers erupted around me. The pain no longer distracting me, I froze. A quick glance around the restaurant patio confirmed my worst fears: everyone was staring at me. I shouldn't have been surprised; by now I was well aware that these episodes—and my scar—drew attention. I grabbed the cardigan from the back of my chair and shoved my arms into the safety of its knitted sleeves. This spring had been unseasonably warm, too warm to justify a sweater, but I would rather sweat to death than be gawked at.

Once the scar was out of sight, the sideshow tucked safely behind a curtain, the other tables went back to minding their own business... except for one. Tucked into the closest corner was a group of young guys, their table crowded with several empty pitchers of beer. They were practically crawling over each other, their stupid mouths hanging open as they tried to get a glimpse of me... or my scar.

Do you even realize that this scar is attached to a person? I thought as I narrowed my eyes at them, but they didn't even seem to notice my glare.

Just as I was about to turn away and try my best to ignore them, one of the guys shot out of his seat. His wide blue eyes fixed on me, bugging out of his head in shock.

"Rachel?" he cried. "Rachel Vaughn? Is that you?"

For a moment, all I could was blink at the stranger and wonder how he knew my name. He was wearing a navy t-shirt with Hillwood University—the same college I attended—written across the chest in block letters. Had I been in a class with him? His generically spiked, bleached-blond hair didn't really stand out, but those blue eyes...

A chill shot through me as it clicked in my head. I did know him. Sort of. He had been a friend of Rick—my cheating ex.

Crap, I thought. My eyes darted around the patio, trying to figure out some way to avoid him, but it was too late: he was already striding over. Soon he was looming over me, blocking out the sun and replacing it with his super-white smile.