Finding Eden

By Arwen Jayne

Work comes in bits and pieces for remote viewer and psychic private detective Rachael Bashandi. When the local Protectors ring asking for help with a case she leaps at the chance. But not everyone in the Protectors Office approve of magick users. Fighting prejudice and her nebulous relationship with the Protectors she sets out to find on Eden Esme James who's disappeared without a trace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arwen Jayne
• Release date: Nov 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005686079

Arwen Jayne

My passion is writing paranormal fantasy romance with a metaphysical twist. When I'm not writing I'm either reading other people's romance and erotica novels, gardening or learning about the myriad of things that interest me: meditation, brain change, metaphysics, linguistics, genetics, myths, magic and the odd bit of science and engineering.

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Finding Eden

Arwen Jayne

Copyright © 2020 Arwen Jayne

All rights reserved

Disclaimer

While reference has been made to some actual historical events or persons and some real locations all other names, characters and places are fictional; the product of the author's overly imaginative mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses or places is purely coincidental.

This is a piece of fiction, enjoy it but if you’re looking for science facts you might find it lacking. The story is purely a creation of my imagination.

Acknowledgements

This story was born out of a discussion my editor Jen and I had about my idea of starting a new series. So this is a pilot. I’ll let you, my readers, decide whether it has legs.

Photo Credit

Many thanks to Julia Knight for the photo of her Socrates

1

The key stuck in the lock, just as the phone started ringing a second time. Whoever it was they were persistent. I swore and shoved at my office door, jiggled the key in the lock some more, finally it gave. The hope of a paying job was spurring me into action.

Need a new damn lock! I muttered to myself as I raced to the phone. Hello, Rachael Bashandi, finding is my forte.

Cynical laughter resounded from the other end of the line, Is that your spiel?

I groaned, Hello Inspector Sanders. What did I do to deserve a call from you? Usually I kept as far away from the cops as I could and they me.

It sticks in my gut to say this but…

You need me to find something. The irony of that wasn't wasted on me.

More like someone. All our normal avenues of investigation have turned up nothing. Get your ass down to the station and while you’re at it switch you’re bloody mobile on. He hung up.

I guess he wasn't chancing me arguing.

I checked my mobile. Oops.

They didn’t call the large imitation sandstone concrete building a police station anymore and it’s inhabitants weren’t called police either. The whole concept of law enforcement had kind of gotten a bad rap of late so some highly paid media marketing person had come up with the idea of rebadging them as protectors. Constables were just called protectors but that in no way demeaned what they did. They still had their warrior side but now it was more focused on social justice and ensuring the rights of citizens. They weren’t allowed to shoot you but they were allowed to immobilise. Specialist roles depended on whether they involved liaison, intervention, investigation, negotiation or something else. People like Henry Sanders, involved in investigating offences against individuals or society in general, once known as crime, were still called Inspectors. But to meet with him I first had to first get to his office.

At the glass and steel front desk public liaison made me sign in and checked me for weapons. I handed over my beloved swiss army knife, depositing it in an envelope which I duly handed back to the liaison, receiving a receipt in return.

I had to walk the obstacle course which was the free-range open space where protectors worked: a mass of plastic laminated desks drowned in files, scribbled notes and yesterday’s lunch. Waste paper bins overflowing with who knows what. The clatter of keys being hit by busy fingers. A cacophony of phone conversations. Most of the protectors were focused on their work. A few looked up briefly to see who the interloper was. One or two who knew of me rolled their eyes or snickered. But it was Protector Vladimir Petrov who rose from his desk like a troll from below a bridge. What the hell are you doing here?

That’s between me and your inspector. I stared up into his eyes of ice cold blue. It strained my head to look up at him but I wouldn’t, could’t, let his size intimidate me. Are you going to let me past or do I need to get someone more polite than you to let me through?

Distaste contorted his face, You shouldn’t be here. We don’t need your kind in here.

And what kind would that be, Protector Petrov? it was on the tip of my tongue to call him something worse but I went with politeness. Brownie points for me. Pity he was such a handsome bugger, even with the crew cut hair.

You consort with evil, with hocus pocus and with shysters.

Well I guess if it’s only hocus pocus and shysters then there’s no worry.

Liar! You will burn …

Petrov! That’s enough. Henry had ventured out of his office to see what the kerfuffle was about. You do not speak to members of the public like that. It doesn’t matter if her religion is different from your own.

I felt like pointing out that I didn’t subscribe to any particular brand of religion. My beliefs came from within. What Vladimir objected to was what he saw as supernatural or occult though what I did to find things, or people, was neither out of the ordinary or hidden to me. But it seemed childish to quibble when my honor was being defended. Thanks Inspector Sanders, can I come in?

Henry grunted and held the door open, while still glaring at Vladimir.

My existence offends him, I stated the obvious but felt clearer for saying it.

Few of us have any understanding of or respect for what you do but that doesn’t give us the right to accost you. Now sit.

I noted he included himself by using ‘us’. Why do you want me here Inspector? You don’t like what I do anymore than Vladimir does.

This, he retrieved a thick file from his desk and plonked it on my lap. This can’t leave here so make yourself comfortable and read. Coffee?

Herbal? I asked hopefully.

Henry swore, I should have known. He fished around in the top drawer of his desk and found a tea bag I hoped was more sanitary than some of the half eaten dim sims and savs I’d seen in the other room.

I opened the file and read.

Eden Esme James had operated a small hole-in-the-wall new age shop on the high street, until she’d disappeared. Hell, I knew that shop. The police had undertaken an extensive investigation into her background, her business dealings, her family and acquaintances. But in amongst the wad of notes was a photo and that was what I needed. I traced the outline of her thirty-something face. Her smile was subtle, suggesting secret wisdom. Brown flecked green eyes held kindness and compassion. Unruly ringlets of Irish red hair framed her oval face. Her shoulders weren’t hunched. She was relaxed and sure. Why had anyone wanted this woman, except to love and cherish?

I found my still place within my belly and asked just that question, why were you taken Eden?

A vision thrust itself into my mind. The morning’s post arrived at the shop. A shipment of new goods. One of the boxes held power. Way more power than you’d expect in a box of new age trinkets. A shadow lurked outside the shop. With it a dark desire to possess. With Eden’s back turned, as she distributed the new goods around