First Touch: The ExCap Files, #1

By Elsa Jade

She lost her childhood and her mother on a wild journey through a jungle deep and dark—now she is losing what's left…

 

Freelance illustrator Cecily Serrao has painted herself into a corner—and she likes it there. She has her pastel watercolors, her tiny Portland apartment with nice indirect lighting, and just enough work to let her drift through her perfect quiet life.

 

Until a supersecret agent with eyes as brilliant gold as the deadly jaguars that haunt her dreams tells her she's missing one thing: herself.

 

Ronan Conrad joined the First Responders: Extrasensory Capabilities Unit—freaks for short—to atone for his troubled, misspent youth. When unknown forces as covert as any of his unit's ops threaten ExCap's mission, the lieutenant guide controller who usually handles other agents with power and precision finds himself hunting the shadows on his own.

 

Alone until he finds her: subtle, strong, stubborn—and a cruel reminder of his worst failure, why he can never let anyone too close ever again.

 

They only share an enemy, and even as a dangerous desire ignites between them in all the reckless hues of passion and peril, they know anything more intimate is impossible. But the freaks of ExCap specialize in the impossible as they fight to survive…FIRST TOUCH.

 

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FIRST TOUCH opens the ExCap Files, a series of fast-paced paranormal romance thrillers that includes some scenes of violence, a few big words and a few bad words, some inappropriately timed snark and sex considering they are in danger and should probably be running away, a bit of sequel bait iykyk, and of course a HEA. Follow Elsa Jade for news on the next ExCap story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Circle Ink
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781941547496

Book preview

Memorandum

Classification: Black

Due to the current regrettable trend toward budgetary transparency, confidential funding for alternative operations has become increasingly problematic.

All relevant branches are hereby under notice to proceed in accordance with Sub-Zero Clearance protocols until such time as relevant committees can be made to see the light through the thick walls of their overstuffed colons.

This message to be expunged pursuant to Code-X13.

Do not reply.

Chapter 1

Besides having to put on pants, dealing with the world was the other reason Cecily Serrao hated leaving the house.

After nearly getting clipped in the crosswalk by a monster SUV—when she had the right of way!—and then the automatic doors of the grocery store refusing to open for her, she figured she was having another one of her maddening invisible days. Sometimes she just felt like a clear, colorless blob of the masking fluid she used in her watercolor paintings. When the rubbery fluid dried, it preserved the paper and kept the pigments from mixing, but when the work was done, the mask was rubbed away, no longer needed. Nobody would even notice the faint marks she left.

Until the weight of a gaze, just a whisper of a nearly imperceptible touch, ghosted across the back of her neck.

She forgot about trying to attract the attention of the gossiping deli counter clerks and scanned the aisles, rubbing one hand over the uneasy tingle at her nape. The press and chatter of weekend shoppers had given her a headache. She should have waited for the quieter early morning hours, as usual. But the tinny echo in her empty refrigerator—rhythm section for the bwa-bwa-boooo of the sad trombones in her equally empty belly—had left her little choice.

Avoiding the jostle of an oblivious woman’s cart, Cecily drew back toward the sheltering bulk of the pastry case. The doughnuts would protect her; cheap doughnuts ’n’ her were good friends.

When she peeked around the edge of the case, she locked stares with eyes of glittering topaz.

The staring guy was standing on the edge of the wine aisle, his pale crystalline eyes even more piercing in contrast to the dark merlot and syrah bottles beside him and the unrelieved blackness of his leather jacket. His black jeans fit him better than most of the screenprinted labels on the glass.

She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat. The last time she’d been pinned under a gaze this intense, she’d been dreaming of jaguars.

This man looked at her the same, like he wanted her to be his next bite.

She took a slow, sidling step to one side, angling behind the pastry rack again. Maybe he just really, really wanted a doughnut.

Another shopper almost ran over her foot, as if she weren’t even there, but when she peered through the hazy plastic, the man’s gaze never shifted off hers.

The extra layers of clothing she’d donned against the omnipresent Portland rain suddenly felt too confining as heat prickled through her. Adrenaline, she knew, flooding her system like today’s February storm, dilating her blood vessels in preparation to flee. Or fight.

Maybe some other word that started with the letter F? Because she wouldn’t mind doing a charcoal of staring man’s wide-shouldered, lean-hipped body, all dark angles except where she smudged with her fingertips, a freehand nude to hang in the art museum… Or private showing only, in her bedroom.

He tilted his head a fraction, as if he knew where her mind had wandered. His lips quirked just faintly, the elegant curve looking wicked and almost Mephistophelian behind his goatee. The short bristle of his black hair glinted with raindrops, as bright under the harsh fluorescent lights as the grim amusement in his eyes. Had he followed her in from outside?

No, this man was no stray kitty.

She spun on her heel. She wasn’t stupid enough to run from the store, although the buzz of voices had taken on a dull grumbling undertone as her headache worsened. Instead, she hurried toward two apron-wrapped women stacking avocados.

Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but I think there’s a man—

The women walked away, carrying their box of culled fruit.

Cecily took a few steps after them. Excuse me?

They never looked back.

Cecily glanced over her shoulder. The guy hadn’t come any closer than the display of apples. Against the waxed gleam of red-gold Cosmic Crisps, the various black shades of him looked hard, unforgiving.

And those topaz eyes were even harder.

Turning to face him head on, she pulled her shoulders back to make herself look bigger. She knew how this posturing, dominant male bullshit went, and she wasn’t going to cower before him. Not that he was huge, but the coiled tension in his body gave him the illusion of bulk, a simmering presence that would be almost impossible to capture in any medium.

One corner of his mouth lifted higher, still not much of a smile and did nothing to soften the sharp cast of his features. Did you think they’d hear you? You’re not showing that strong. I’m the only one who can see you.

His low voice carried across the fresh produce, and the rough timbre of it shivered down her nerves. Ooh, she hated that sort of pickup artist negging: He was the only one who could see her? Pfft.

Well, I’m sure they’ll see my money when I check out and leave, which I’m doing right now. So goodbye. She slanted a quick glance at the stacks of fruit. Couldn’t the employees at least have left a box cutter behind if they were going to take their break while leaving shoppers to deal with creepy stalkers?

You’re not here to squeeze the bananas. Quit pretending. I know what you are.

What, did you guess I was hungry? So very clever of you. She looked around for her basket of groceries. She must have left it by the pastry case while getting away from him. Hadn’t she? She couldn’t quite remember. She rubbed her temple where pain was spreading like an invisible bruise.

The man took a step toward her. Headache? You’ve been out of body too long.

Despite her best intentions, she flinched. Stay away from me. I’ve got a bad-ass fast pitch with an avocado and I’ll drop you where you stand.

He paused. Not intimidated by her hastily contrived warning, she saw, just staring at her, brows drawn in thought. "Etheric projection remote viewing plus intermittent psychokinesis? Why hasn’t ExCap found you before now?"

What? What are you talking about? She blinked distractedly, trying to clear her fading vision. Had she come to the grocery later than she thought? Why were they turning off the lights? Pain leaked over her skull and down her spine. With difficulty, she focused on what he’d said. I’m not a psycho.

No. You’re a ghost.

A what? Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. She took a deep breath, as if extra air sweetened with fruit flavors would make sense of his babbling. Momma always said even the prettiest ones have a flaw. Especially the pretty ones.

He frowned. "Hold on. You calling me pretty?"

She was willing to overlook some major red flags, but I personally draw the line at demented stalkers. Seriously, goodbye now.

Don’t you fade on me. His scowl deepened. I want your name.

Well, you can’t have it.

His glittering gemstone eyes sharpened, as if he could cut into her mind. Tell me.

She squinted. Blaming him for the shards of pain in her head seemed silly, but she was already having a bad day. She could pride herself on being well-mannered and reasonable some other time. "I said no."

He stared topaz daggers at her for a few seconds more then reared back. You’re strong. Where’s your handler?

No one handles me. Damn it, now her fracturing imagination was conjuring up way too vivid pictures of his hands on her. He had long fingers, wide palms, the kind of strong, capable hands that could stretch a canvas in minutes. If he hadn’t been a rude, negging stalker, she might have been willing to get a little wet and yielding for him…

If you’re freelance, who hired you? Why are you spying on ExCap?

She ground her teeth, forcing back the wayward wanton thoughts. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a freelance illustrator, but I haven’t done work for anybody called ExCap. And I’m definitely not a spy. This is just absurd.

The muscle in his jaw writhed, sending a ripple of light across the clipped scruff of his goatee. I don’t like being lied to.

I’m not lying. She recoiled as he closed the distance between them in two rapid strides. Hey, what are you—?

I know you ghosts hate this, almost as much as I hate being called absurd.

"I didn’t say you were absurd. She twisted away from him. Not exactly."

One touch, you know, and I’ll be able to find you again.

He stepped into her personal space.

Measured against her own body, he wasn’t that much taller than her. The leashed intensity of his stare, the taut strength in his lean form, zinged across all her senses, and she couldn’t force herself to look away. Despite her confusion and concern, she didn’t move away when he raised his hand.

He hesitated, his hand hovering near her shoulder. At the last moment, he angled his wrist as if he’d brush one fingertip over her cheek instead.

A flicker of warmth shivered close to her skin, like an approaching flame, and every muscle in her yearned toward that temptation. How long had it been since she’d had anyone close enough to touch her? Too long if she was willing to let a strange man—a very strange man—past her guard.

In the heartbeat before his fingers touched her skin, the world around her dissolved in a wash of muddled gray like rain across a watercolor, and she was gone.

***

The ghost vanished. But not before Ronan Conrad got a teasing taste of her.

Fuck. He shook out his hand even though he hadn’t quite touched her. The burning tingle of contact with his control subjects never left visible scars, but his nerve endings refused to believe that.

The ExCap adjustors were always trying to convince him the psyche/body connection was more intricate than he was willing to admit. Admit aloud anyway. He knew better than to tell those wanna-be shrinks how close the connections truly were.

Which was why he did his damnedest to keep them separate.

The deliberate separation of his intentions and emotions hadn’t helped him much in tracking this elusive remote viewer though. And now that he’d finally found her, she’d gotten away without even giving up her name. When was the last time one of his subjects had been able to withhold information from him? Not that he had to force them; just give them a little nudge. Of course, everyone in ExCap was working toward the same goals, so they didn’t have anything to hide from each other.

Other than the usual ugly array of those aforementioned invisible scars, of course.

But he didn’t want to see those any more than they wanted to share. They saw enough ugliness working for First Responders: Extrasensory Capabilities Unit.

Ronan prowled through the store, unraveling the lingering impressions around him. Tracking wasn’t his talent. But as a guide controller with close-range amplification factors, he could boost the latent talents he encountered, seeking his quarry.

Officially, their unit name was shortened to ExCap, but there was a good reason FR:ECU agents called themselves freaks for short.

This grocery outlet in a not-yet-gentrified neighborhood of outer east Portland didn’t offer any surprises, although one of the checkers had slightly above-average patterning skills, a talent he was currently putting to use by unconsciously finding the best way to fit as many items as possible into the fewest number of paper bags. Although he was not being particularly conscientious about whether the bread was on the top or bottom.

Ronan picked out a candy bar and went through the check stand. The boy’s gaze skimmed over the single item dismissively; no challenge for him there.

Ronan glanced at the name tag. "Hey, Brody. I was wondering if you could tell me…"

The boy cocked his head.

I was hoping to meet a girl here, Ronan continued after that minor subliminal push. A lady. She’s been here shopping a few times, and I wrote a notice online. You know, one of those ‘I saw you’ posts. But she didn’t answer and I haven’t seen her since.

Brody spun the candy bar between his fingers before whisking it across the scanner. I saw your Mustang pull up. Why you gotta post anything?

Ronan grimaced. Not everyone shares our love of old cars, Brody. Speaking of mysteries… This lady, she’s just a little shorter than me. Wears a plain olive drab rain coat. Light brown hair, down to her shoulders but a little messed up. Greenish eyes. Seemed quiet. Not too pretty.

That Mustang a V8?

Ronan nodded. Five-liter Coyote racing crate.

"And you still thirsty for not-too-pretty, messed-up chicks that’s not answering?"

Ronan sighed and flashed a twenty between his fingers. Desperation, kid. It’s truly ugly.

The boy shrugged. I don’t know her name or nothing, but she usually shops in the early morning. She likes doughnuts but only buys one at a time. I don’t think she has a cat though. Lot of times, chicks that buy doughnuts one at a time buy cat food too.

Ronan stifled a smile. I never noticed.

I notice, Brody said.

You happen to notice if she drives a cool car?

Nah. Once I offered to carry her bags out, she told me she’s an artist so she likes to walk, look at things. Even when she buys a lot of stuff, which she usually does. She stocks up all at once, you know? So maybe that’s why you haven’t seen her in a while. Brody hesitated. "Actually, I haven’t seen her in a while. Longer than usual, prolly almost three weeks."

Ronan’s urge to smile faded. Maybe she found another boyfriend.

Maybe, the boy said doubtfully. She’d still need to eat though, unless he’s paying.

Or unless she was a ghost. Ghosts didn’t eat.

Ronan handed the twenty over to the boy. Thanks for your help.

If I see her, should I tell her a guy with a custom Mustang is looking for her?

Ronan shook his head. I want it to be a surprise.

He left the store, drove just out of sight, and parked the car. He didn’t doubt the boy would make note of which direction he’d gone, but it didn’t matter. Randomly, he walked the rain-soaked neighborhood, senses wide open to receive the least trace of her.

Nothing. Either he was in the wrong place or she wasn’t projecting. Maybe he’d scared her off. Maybe she’d gone crying back to her handler. Not that she seemed the type to cry.

Fast ball with an avocado, he muttered. Wouldn’t work with a doughnut, now would it?

As the low, heavy clouds swallowed the last of the afternoon light, he headed back to his car. The discreet green light on the dash showed the vehicle hadn’t been touched. He almost wished it had been. That would’ve given him something to work from.

He descended from the eastside neighborhood toward the river. On the other side of the water, the tall buildings of the city glimmered with 8-to-5:30ers waiting for happy hour. He crossed one of the bridges into downtown, maneuvering patiently through the one-way streets bustling with pedestrians hunched against the rain and zippy cyclists acting like if they pedaled faster they could fit between the cars and the raindrops.

Rising again from the river, the square office buildings gave way to big old Victorians converted to commercial spaces and apartments. Climbing beyond those, sprawling modern buildings with backsides jacked up on stilts took advantage of the views across the city to the river. Somewhere on the horizon to the east, when the rain took a break, Mount Hood would show itself, postcard-pretty under its glacier, pretending it wasn’t a volcano that might someday make a giant mess.

Ronan parked in front of one of the nondescript stucco boxes. The building dropped three stories down on the steep hillside, but from the street, the façade offered only a boring black door. On one side of the door, a potted bamboo was trying to climb out of the terra cotta and on the other was an eye-level key-pad.

He punched his code and waited for the disguised camera to scan his iris and identify him.

The door cracked with a faint pneumatic hiss.

The ExCap seal that no one unfamiliar with the program had ever seen dominated the wall behind the empty space where a receptionist would have been. He’d never understood why a secret government department needed to have its own seal.

Just because he was a guide controller didn’t mean he had actual control over anything.

Footsteps echoing on the institutional linoleum, Ronan took the stairs down a level. Subdued rope lighting emphasized the city glow spread in panoramic splendor beyond the wall of windows surrounding the low-walled cubicles. Many ExCap agents were claustrophobic to a greater or lesser degree and appreciated the wide-open view. The rest were agoraphobic. They worked in the basement.

The unit’s adjustors had several explanations for the prevalence of spatial processing disorders among the agents. Maybe such biological and mental abnormalities were lockstepped with their other talents, an unavoidable echo. Or maybe they unconsciously tried to camouflage their inexplicable abilities with more mundane pathologies.

Regardless, after the adjustors admitted, for all their theories, they couldn’t do anything about it, Ronan had stopped listening.

He walked down another level. The less spectacular view was broken up by the walls of private offices. He punched his entry code at one and let himself in. He didn’t bother turning on the light, just dropped into the chair and swiveled to face the window.

In the rectangle of ambient doorway light reflected in the bulletproof glass, he saw a silhouette pause.

Hey there, Lieutenant. You’re working late.

Without glancing over his shoulder, Ronan studied the reflection of the lanky, crew-cut agent shifting from foot to foot. You too.

Anything you need me for? I just finished my last set of detanglings for the week. Managed not to blow up any of the hostages this time.

Ronan closed his eyes for a moment then turned to face the newcomer. That’s good to hear, Jennings. Real good.

Their newest recruit wasn’t much older than the grocery boy, but Ronan could sense the welling power before him, restless and eager. Without thinking, he siphoned off the worst of it, diffusing it like explosive pressure from a fuel line.

The kid had been up on his toes; now he settled back with an inaudible sigh. "I almost triggered one this morning. Missed a hidden trip wire. That Menendez is a sneaky bastard. But then I thought about what you told me. You know, about staying focused and not letting myself get out of control of myself. And then I saw it. Turns out, Menendez had an office pool said I’d miss it. Only Washington put his money on me. He split the winnings with me."

That’s the kind of team spirit we’re looking for, Ronan said wryly.

Do you think I should buy the rest of the guys a round? Jennings shifted again, then added quietly, I really want to fit in here.

Considering the youth had been nearly