Tripp had to look twice at Eden. Did she just read my mind?
She winked.
She did! Tripp ran a hand over the back of his neck, disconcerted as fuck!
“Boss, I know we’ve got a case to work,” she told Tucker. “But may I?” she asked Tripp, her small right hand already reached out for him to take.
“Sure, why not?” He accepted her gracious handshake, expecting it to be brief and gentle. Instead, he got the ice-cold stare of a woman who could see right through him. Time stopped. Eden blinked in quick, jerky succession, like she was processing data he hadn’t meant to share. Hadn’t known how to share. Jesus. She was inside his head. He could feel her. Couldn’t stop her, though. Didn’t know how.
“Stop,” Jameson commanded, his voice sharp and curt. “Eden, break the link. Now!”
She blinked again, shook whatever had just happened off, and released Tripp’s hand, which by then, was sweaty as hell.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she breathed, sinking to the ground. Ky slipped an arm around her waist before she hit the dirt.
“What the fuck was that?” Tripp hissed, shaking his fingers to get them to stop humming. Felt like Eden had just electrocuted him. Even his head buzzed.
“Sorry, Agent McClane. It happens,” Ky answered calmly, as he turned his attention to his wife. “You okay, hon?”
Her head bobbed forward, and all those blonde spirals fell over her face. She was shaking, and Tripp was damned well-shaken. Sorry didn’t cut it. “What the fuck just happened?”
Isaiah stepped between the Winchesters and Tripp. “It’s called transference, Agent McClane. Apparently, you have, for lack of a better word, some intense shit going on in your life right now.” Isaiah cocked his head in that same curious way Jameson was prone to do. “Sometimes that shit is too much for one person to hold, much less hold back. It transfers, automatically, to the nearest receptor, which this morning…” He nodded at Eden, whose rose-colored blush had been replaced by gray pallor. “…is the first FBI psychic ever, Eden Winchester.”
“She read my mind?” That sounded a lot like invasion of privacy.
“No. Actually, your overloaded mind reached out and dumped itself into Eden. She can read minds, yes, but that’s not what happened this time. She’s not able to block spontaneous transference yet. We’re all learning how to handle our talents, but we’ve still got a long way to go.”
“How do you even know what happened to me?”
“He’s our psychic over-watch,” Tate answered, his hefty arms crossed over his chest. “He keeps track of the rest of us. All the time. He always knows where we are.”
“What is he, God?” Tripp snapped out.
“Let it go,” Jameson breathed. “The same thing happened when I shook her hand. Guess I’ve got unresolved anger issues related to my loss of sight. Like that’s a shocker.”
“You do?” Tripp asked, damned surprised that this suave, cool, collected guy wasn’t as perfect as he appeared.
“To clarify…” Isaiah held a hand up for attention. “The same thing has happened with nearly everyone from your TEAM, Agent McClane. Eden shook their hands. Their minds threw everything down, like yours just did. You’re all open books, which is why we want to work with you. We can read you, so we trust you. That, and each of you brings a different skillset to the job at hand.”
“Skills we just don’t have,” Ky added, his arm still securely around his wife.
“So what did my mind tell you?” Tripp studied Eden. “If we’re all transparent, why can’t you read the killer’s mind?”
She was leaning into Ky for support, and he had that whole protective, male vibe humming. Tripp didn’t need to be psychic to see that. Eden’s lashes fluttered. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She looked as bad as Tripp felt.
Ky met Tripp’s question head-on. “Mind dumps are confidential, Agent McClane. Come see us at our office sometime, and she’ll tell you everything. But as far as our killer’s concerned, some people have natural mental blocks we don’t yet understand how to get through. Psychic ability is not a one-size-fits-all scenario. Tate’s the one who taught the rest of us how to block psychic babble. He grew up knowing how to do that. It came natural to him. Now we’re figuring out how to get through natural mental blocks. Do you know how?”
“Err, me?” Tripp shook his head. “I’m not psychic.” Or crazy.
“It’s not crazy, Agent McClane,” Isaiah said.
“Stop reading my mind, damn it.”
A knowing smile curled the corners of Isaiah’s big mouth. “Sorry. It’s a lot like learning to walk. Once you start, it’s hard to slow down. Next thing, you’re running.”
“Try,” Tripp ordered dryly.
Isaiah nodded, but the guy grinned, as if this was all a game for him. “Imagine waking up one day, and suddenly, you’re able to hear what’s going on in every person’s mind within a ten-mile radius of your bedroom. That’s when my psychic gift manifested. I was a teenager, and thought I was crazy, a freak. It wasn’t until I met Tate a couple years ago, that I learned how to filter the excess noise out of my head.”
“It’s called tuning,” Tate added with a shrug of his big shoulders. “No big deal. I grew up knowing how to tune down the noise and zero in on what’s important. It’s easy once you know how.”
“But none of you can read the perp’s mind?” Jameson asked.
Ky shook his head. “Correct. Which is why Tucker’s fit to be tied. Eden’s able to pick up psychic impressions off people’s clothing, sometimes from an item that meant a lot to them.”
“Like a doll or a purse. A shoe,” Tucker added grimly, his arms crossed over his chest.
“She works like a bloodhound?” Tripp asked.
“In a way, yes,” Ky replied, still holding onto his wife. “Eden’s psychic gift acts very much like a bloodhound when it picks up scents from
