Warning: This story contains strong language and light violence.

I always thought it was funny when the lead character in a detective story is the one who finds the body. I mean, what are the chances, right?

At least, that's what I thought until today, when I literally stumbled on a body myself.

My morning was going so well, too.

I'd risen early, and since I had no consultations and it was a beautiful day, I'd decided to treat myself to an extra-large latte and go for a run.

It felt like a good start to a good day, and I wasn't even bothered when Kevin the Asshole Barista (who apparently still hasn't forgiven me for 'breaking up' with him after one date) wrote "Julie" instead of "Julian" on the side of my cup.

I'd driven my vintage VW Beetle—restored to a gleaming dark blue—to my favorite running trail, finished my coffee, and set out along the winding path.

It weaves a twenty-mile loop along the river and through the woods at the edge of town, though I only run a small stretch at a time. Today I chose one of my favorites, where the paved trail snakes alongside the water through dense aspen, birch, and willow. It's like something from a fairy tale—rich with the charm of nature that draws people to this town.

Spring Lakes lies between the arms of a mountain range. It's small, isolated, quirky and eccentric, and more liberal than most places this far north in California.

It's also a haven for people like me: people with unusual gifts. Nobody blinks twice when you tell them you're psychic around here, and the police are among my most loyal customers.

Which is why they take me seriously when I report a dead body as a murder and tell them that the killer was... unusual, to say the least.

It was a little after eight o'clock, morning sunlight lancing through the green canopy of leaves, and I'd just passed the 5K mark on my running app when that latte caught up with me.

I know, I know—it's bad manners—but I seriously needed to pee, and there was no one else around. So, I went behind some bushes, pulled down my running pants, and found a dead girl.

At least I saw her before I peed on her. That would have been hard to explain.

Chief Coleridge is giving me side-eye as it is; as if she also thinks it's unrealistic for people whose business involves dead bodies to go around finding them by accident.

Now, she beckons me over to where she's standing near the corpse with the coroner and the crime-scene photographer. Mercifully, they've covered it by this point, so I can approach without having to see it again.

Once was quite enough, thanks.

"Tell me one more time, Hart," Coleridge says. "How did you find the body? It was very well concealed."

I can tell from the set of her mouth that she's only making me say it again because she thinks it's funny, and the other two haven't heard it yet.

At least she has a sense of humor.

Her predecessor was a jerk who refused to work with me because of what he called my 'smart-ass attitude.' So far, Coleridge and I are getting along, and I'd like to keep it that way, so instead of rolling my eyes, I reign in my sarcasm and tell it one more time.

"I was running and I needed to, um...relieve myself," I say. "So I went behind the bushes here because—as you say—it's a very well-concealed spot, and that's when...I found her." I swallow, a hint of my earlier nausea resurfacing with the memory of what I'd seen. "Then I called you. Not exactly the relaxing morning I'd had planned."

"I bet it really put a pinch on the flow of things," the coroner comments drily.

The photographer giggles. Coming from a balding, heavy-set man in his fifties, it's not an attractive sound. I scowl at him, feeling like maybe someone should be offering me hot cocoa, or a blanket or something.

I mean, I consult on investigations from time to time, but mangled corpses are definitely not part of my daily routine. I could be in shock for all they know.

"And after you'd called it in, then what did you do?" Coleridge prompts.

I blink at her. "I, uh...relieved myself somewhere else."

She rolls her eyes. "I don't care whether you pissed or not, Hart. I mean what did you do at the scene? Did you touch anything, move anything...pick anything up?"

"No, I did not," I almost—but not quite—snap. The problem with working for the police—at least in this town—is that they always assume I'm some kind of an idiot. "I'll read the evidence if you want me to," I say, a bit sharply, "but you'll have to pay like everyone else."

My abilities let me pick up perceptions from things that I touch—sights, sounds, smells, tastes, sensations, even emotions—and the stronger the energy associated with the object, the stronger my impressions will be. A murder victim—or anything they might've touched—is guaranteed to provide some very strong impressions indeed.

Strong, and—if past experience says anything—extremely unpleasant. I'm not about to go reading one for kicks.

"If you want my services, I'll require our usual arrangement," I go on, striving for a conciliatory tone. I could use the money, after all.

"That will be up to the lead detective on the case," Coleridge says, hands on her ample hips, "but I'll pass along my recommendation. I have a feeling we could use your help on this one, Julian, especially if your info on the killer turns out to be correct."

Oh yeah, I did get one impression—not on purpose though, and not from the victim.

After looking down to discover I was about to pee on a dead girl, I'd stumbled back to the trail as fast as I could. On the way, my sleeve snagged on a sharp branch, and as I freed myself from its spiky clutches I'd realized I wasn't the first to get caught. A bit of blue fabric hung tangled with the twigs, and I'd accidentally brushed it with my hand.

Usually, I always keep myself well-guarded, but the shock of finding a body left me vulnerable, and one touch was all it took for my senses to be overwhelmed. My impressions were little more than a confused scramble of chaotic sensation, but I'd relayed as much as I could to Coleridge and her team.

The fabric came from the killer—that much was clear. A wild darkness filled his mind, his senses like an animal's, and he was driven by the desire to hunt and kill. He'd just torn open a girl's rib-cage and ripped her heart out, but he wasn't satisfied. He'd kill again. I knew, because of all my impressions, the strongest was this: he'd enjoyed it.

He'd thought it was fun.

That, even more than the sight of gore, is what had made me feel so sick.

"Who is the lead?" I ask, swallowing against the tang of nausea at the back of my throat. "Vasquez?" I raise my brows hopefully. Vasquez is experienced and easy-going. She doesn't take me very seriously, but at least she laughs at my jokes.

"Nope, not this time," Coleridge says. Her iron-gray eyes are bright in her weathered face, and for some reason, the corner of her mouth is twitching.

"Erickson?"

I try not to wince. Erickson is good at his job, and it's not that he doesn't want to work with me. He does—just a little too much. The last time I consulted on one of his cases, he'd made it very clear that the evidence was not the only thing he wanted me to touch. I'd given him a hard pass on that, and it hurt his pride. Even so, he hasn't given up; for some reason, he can't believe that I just don't like him.

"Not Erickson, either," Coleridge smirks.

"Okay, then who?"

I mean, there's Perlman, but he's inept. Bashir is promising, but he's far too inexperienced for something like this.

"Someone new," she says, a disturbingly uncharacteristic grin stretching her face. "Just transferred down from a big city up north. Don't know why he wants to work in a backwater town like Spring Lakes, but his record's exemplary."

"Cool," I shrug. "When do I meet him?"

She nods over my shoulder, her expression resuming its familiar, professional neutrality. "How about right now?"

I turn and feel my jaw drop a little.

Six and a half feet of gorgeous is walking towards me. I see smooth almond skin over muscles that shift with fluid strength, long brown locs tipped with gold, and startling amber-colored eyes in a face that belongs on a magazine. I have no idea what his parentage might be, but I'd like to send a thank-you note to his mom and dad, because they created a god.

"Hunter—good to see you here." Coleridge greets him with a handshake and quickly fills him on what's been done so far.

When she finishes, he turns towards me with cold curiosity lighting his eyes.

"Who's this, then?" he asks.

His voice is slightly rough: a bit of gravel at the bottom of something smooth and dark.

Coleridge makes introductions. "Dane Hunter, meet Julian Hart. Julian consults for us from time to time. In this case, he's not on the team—yet. He found the body."

Hunter's curiosity sharpens to a point I find mildly uncomfortable. He moves closer to grasp my hand, and even though he's at least two feet away I imagine I can feel the heat coming off his body. I badly want to step right into it.

"Consults how?" he asks, looking down at me.

"I'm a cl-clairsentient," I stammer, feeling wildly inadequate. I'm not a shrimp, but my body-type is lean and tends towards slim rather than bulky. I'm barely half as wide as the mountain of man before me, and my perfectly respectable 5'11" seems tiny next to his height.

"What's that? Some kind of scientist?" His voice has an almost physical quality, and I shiver as I imagine I can feel the vibration of sound against my skin.

"Uh...no. I'm..." Clearly losing my mind because, for the life of me, I can't think of a single word. At least not one I can say aloud in a work environment.

"He's a psychic," Coleridge supplies, amused by something.

Probably me, unfortunately. She knows I can't resist anything along the lines of the perfect mesomorph standing in front of me right now. He's got shoulders that look like they could carry the world, muscles I can see through his shirt, and narrow hips that—

I touch the corner of my mouth, just to make sure I'm not actually drooling.

Then I realize that as much as I'm about to fall in insta-lust with him, Dane Hunter is feeling nothing of the sort in return.

In fact, he's looking at me with a mixture of disgust and fascination with which one might regard a particularly hideous spider.

"Huh. I shoulda guessed." He pulls his hand from my grasp and actually wipes it on his pants.

"Uh...it's not contagious," I say, frowning and reassessing my opinion of him.

I know I look a little strange, but most people at least have the decency to pretend. My chocolate brown hair and ivory-pale skin aren't that unusual, but my amethyst-colored eyes are. People assume they're contacts.

They're not.

Between the eyes and a face that gets called 'pretty' way more than I'd like, people jump to all kinds of conclusions. Some of which are wrong.

I stare a challenge at Hunter and he crosses his arms over his chest, clearly unimpressed.

"Uh-huh," he grunts. "And how, exactly, did you 'find' the body, Mr...?"

"Hart?" I prompt. I mean, we were just introduced, like, two seconds ago.

"Is that your name?" he asks. "You don't sound sure."

"I've already given my statement," I reply, ignoring his last question. "Several times, actually."

"I hope you were certain about that, at least."

I narrow my eyes at him. I can't tell if he's teasing me or just being an asshole.

He makes it clear which it is when he turns away and proceeds to ignore me, engaging Coleridge in a discussion as if I'm not even here.

"Okay...great. I'll just, er, go then. Unless you need anything else, Chief?" I ask once it's obvious I'm intruding on their tête-à-tête.

It's Hunter who answers me. He turns with an expression that is decidedly unfriendly and fixes me with an amber-eyed stare that triggers something like 'fight or flight' in my heart.

"No, Mr. Hart. I think we've got it from here. If we need anything more from you, you'll know it."

Okaaay. Clearly, this is not a case I will be consulting on.

Just as well, really. Remembering the feelings I'd picked up from that scrap of cloth sends a shiver down my back that has nothing to do with the fact that I'm still in my light running clothes and the sweat has long since cooled and dried on my skin.

As I jog back to my car, I think it's probably for the best. My last relationship was based more on lust than compatibility, after all, and it hadn't ended well for me.

Even if Dane Hunter was interested (which he's clearly not) getting anywhere near that would be a bad idea.

A very bad idea, indeed.