the most about Krystal Tanner—that’s what the newspapers called the other night’s human battery—and their fears about who might be next. He could tell the visitors by their dazed expressions as they scanned the fair’s program, and by their uncomfortably loud jokes, pretending that they were here as a lark when, really, each of them wanted to believe. And then there were the ones in-between, the ones He couldn’t be sure about.
Like that green-eyed blonde.
She was the same one who’d chased Him away from Krystal Tanner. She’d caused trouble for Him. And she wasn’t scared.
He felt stronger, when people were scared. He felt more real. So he didn’t like her. But was she a psychic? She didn’t seem to be attending any of the workshops, but neither had she paid for tickets—readings cost between five and twenty-five dollars, in five-dollar increments, depending on how skilled one’s reader was. She wasn’t even carrying a program, and almost everyone carried programs. Instead, she seemed to just be moving from one ballroom to the other, almost…patrolling.
As if someone like her could protect these witches from the likes of Him.
In any case, if she had no abilities, she was beneath His notice. Once He saw the detectives from the other night approach her, He decided it was time to slip into one of the smaller lecture rooms, to hear about “Chakras and Personal Energies.”
Maybe then, He’d figure out how to draw more fear out of these people. Soon, if He kept feeding, even the Master wouldn’t be able to contain Him.
Then He would be free.
Faith felt Chopin’s approach, but she decided not to turn until he said something. Why advertise that she could hear his footsteps and his strong heartbeat, could smell his unique scent of coffee, aftershave, motor oil and forcefulness on the hotel’s Freon-edged air?
“Don’t tell me you believe in this junk?” he demanded, as he leaned around her elbow.
Faith blinked at him, his suit coat rumpled, his tie loose, his top two collar buttons undone to show a tanned throat and a thatch of dark chest hair. He needed a shave and a haircut, and—to judge by the shadows under his intense eyes—a good night’s sleep. That extra edge of coffee—black, and lots of it—told her he was pushing himself too hard. If it was to solve Krystal’s murder, she liked that about him.
If it wasn’t, then she was still annoyed about him trying to catch her—as Cassandra—the previous evening, even if he hadn’t succeeded.
“I didn’t know you were a believer either,” she countered, then had to laugh at the face he pulled in reaction. “Hello, Detective Jefferson,” she added to Chopin’s more easygoing partner. She knew his real title was Detective Sergeant, but since Cassandra called him that, it seemed a good idea if Faith did not.
“Call me Butch, ma’am.”
Even better. “Okay, Butch. Are you two here officially?”
“We figured we’d take a look at the kind of folks Miss Krystal knew,” explained Butch, while Chopin looked on like a kid dragged to his sister’s school concert. His mouth was in threatening mode, and his jaw was definitely a dare. “Maybe track down that missing lover. Ask a few people if they saw anything. Do you know any of the psychics ’round here?”
“Sure. All three of my roommates are reading tonight.”
Chopin let his head fall back, relieved. “So that’s why you’re here. Keeping an eye on them, right?”
Which was true, but she didn’t like his tone. “That, and to maybe get a past-life analysis or have my aura cleansed. Were you two looking for someone in particular?”
“Yeah,” said Chopin. “The killer. Any suggestions?”
She had to remember that it was Cassandra who’d brought them here, not, as far as they were concerned, Faith. But it was surprisingly easy to hesitate, to glance around. “A few minutes ago I saw the guy who tended bar at DeLoup’s the night Krystal died. But I was talking to him at the time of her murder. And none of my roommates know who Krystal was dating. I believe them.”
“Here’s a thought,” suggested Butch. “We need to figure out more about why this fellow targeted a psychic. Why don’t I make the rounds, talk to some of these fortune-teller types, while Roy here trades you a cup of coffee for an overview of this little community. How would that work for everybody?”
If everybody was Faith and Roy, they just stared at him.
Chopin snapped out of it first, shrugging his rangy shoulders. His suit coat hung open to show the gun and badge on his belt. “Uh, sure. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Yes, it could, thought Faith. But she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t sense any threat from this man. He was pure cop, and even if she’d been a suspect through her close knowledge of the victim, the evidence couldn’t be less incriminating. He wasn’t out to arrest her. He was…
Was he interested in her?
She’d smelled that shift of pheromones often enough in her life to know that yes, he was. But she also knew physical interest wasn’t exactly an on/off switch for most men, or quite a few women. Sometimes even inappropriate men, like a professor or a doctor, or even her boss, couldn’t help their body’s reactions. All she could hope was for them to guard their behavior. Most, like Greg the other day, did just fine.
Other than calling her cute on the phone, which could’ve just been teasing, Chopin was also keeping it cool. Distant. Although as she continued to hesitate, his brows drew together into a foreboding frown, like he was taking it personally.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, Detective Chopin.”
“You can call him Roy,” insisted Butch with a grin and a wave, veering off toward the first ballroom.
“That guy’s as subtle as an ax to the head,” muttered Roy, forcing an after-you gesture that was hardly sulky at all.
“I’m guessing you don’t get out much?” said Faith, preceding him toward the wide, curved stairway. The restaurant’s bar, the only place to get coffee, was off the lobby on the ground floor.
His presence, behind her, felt downright tangible. “Not that it’s any business of his or yours, but no, I don’t. I’m a little busy what with all the murderers and scumbags running around needing to get caught.”
“All work and no play…”
“Is exactly the sort of thing Butch would say. So how do you like your coffee, Miss Corbett?”
She didn’t bother requesting that he call her Ms. Corbett. She let him fetch the drinks, too. That sort of thing mattered to some guys. For her part, she waited at a little bistro table, her chair turned so she could watch the foot traffic to and from the stairway to the ballrooms and the psychic fair.
“So what can I tell you about the psychic community around here?” she asked, turning her back on the passersby when Chopin returned with the coffee. He was not a graceful man. She felt relieved when the drinks were on the table.
“How’d you get involved with this element?”
She blinked,
