make you dislike getting wet, then.’’
‘‘It doesn’t work that way. I enjoy the ocean.’’ She started walking again, so he kept pace with her.
The street beside them was busy with buses, bicycles, cars and taxicabs, but traffic in Montebello was leisurely compared to the frenzied battle of Italian streets. For the most part the people, too, ambled along with a lack of haste typical of this city, an easy flow of workers in wrinkled cotton, young men in neatly pressed shirts with their arms around women in bright dresses, teens of both sexes in jeans and Reeboks, old men in stiff shoes and black pants, and old women with shawls and full skirts. Here and there he saw a uniform—police or army. Most of the faces held the sun-kissed duskiness of the Mediterranean peoples, though a few were tourist-pale or African-dark. He didn’t see a single umbrella.
‘‘So you like the water?’’ he asked after a moment.
‘‘My family’s lore says that a Fire-Gifted who fears or dislikes water is out of balance. It’s rather like the Chinese system of feng shui, in which the elements have a constructive and a destructive or balancing cycle. Fire without water to cool it becomes purely destructive.’’
‘‘I’ve heard of feng shui,’’ he said neutrally. He wasn’t interested in it, any more than he was in fortune-telling or numerology. But people told him things. ‘‘The astrological signs are divided along similar lines, too, aren’t they? And, ah, what’s it called—the witchcraft religion. It refers to earth, air, fire and water, too, doesn’t it?’’
‘‘Wicca, you mean? There are similarities in most of the mystical or magical systems, probably for the same reason religions all over the world value the same qualities—like love, kindness, courage, loyalty, honesty. Some things are universal. As for astrology… Drew, you don’t believe that nonsense, do you?’’
He delivered his line with appropriate shock. ‘‘You mean you don’t?’’
‘‘I don’t mean to criticize anyone who does believe in it, but it seems silly. Though I suppose a half-awake seer might be able to use horoscopes to tap into her abilities,’’ she conceded. ‘‘It can’t be worse than using a crystal ball.’’
‘‘You don’t believe in astrology or use a crystal ball. My illusions are shattered.’’
‘‘You’re teasing me,’’ she said resignedly.
‘‘So why don’t you use a crystal ball?’’
‘‘Real crystal can be useful, but those glass globes people call crystal balls aren’t of much use, except as a neutral focus. Glass is a psychic insulator. Drew, do you really want to hear all this? I feel as if I’m delivering a lecture in Psychic Studies 101.’’
‘‘I want to hear it.’’
‘‘All right.’’ Her attention seemed fixed on the sidewalk in front of her, or else on an interior landscape. ‘‘Many materials hold psychic impressions. Some contain or insulate them, some disperse them, like water or salt—that’s why they’re used in cleansing rituals. Gemstones intensify whatever is impressed on them, which is probably why they’ve often been thought to have magical properties. Being Fire-Gifted, I’m especially sensitive to the emanations of materials that have been through fire, such as metal or pottery.’’
‘‘I see. Your abilities aren’t limited to visions.’’
Her sudden tension revealed itself in the way her fingers tightened, then relaxed in his, telling him he’d followed the trail correctly. ‘‘I do pick up impressions from objects sometimes. From animals and people, too. But not the way an empath or telepath would, so I don’t see how I could help.’’
‘‘What kind of impressions do you get from people?’’
‘‘I feel their ‘‘I feel their èsseri—call it their essence, or their auras. When I’m close to someone, it feels as if the air is denser, slightly resistant. And I get a sort of blunt sense of who this person is. Like a smell, I guess. Just as dogs recognize a person by scent, I recognize people by the way their auras feel.’’
‘‘But you don’t pick up actual thoughts? I can see why you didn’t think you could help. But,’’ he added thoughtfully, ‘‘I don’t understand why you were so reluctant to tell me about this.’’
‘‘Don’t you?’’ Her mouth twisted. ‘‘But then, right now you don’t believe any of this is real. Think about how you’d feel if you did believe it, or just started wondering if it was true. Would you want to be around someone you thought could read your mind?’’
‘‘I suppose not. But this business of feeling people’s auras isn’t like reading their minds.’’
‘‘No. I don’t pick up thoughts. Sometimes I can tell when someone is lying, if I’m close enough. Well—almost always,’’ she corrected herself reluctantly. ‘‘But a lie detector does the same thing, and that evidence would be admissible in court. My testimony wouldn’t.’’
‘‘And is what you pick up from objects similar? A unique ‘scent’ from those who have handled them?’’
She shot him an annoyed look. ‘‘You’re persistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were taking this seriously.’’
He took it very seriously. He didn’t believe it—hell, he’d lied to her consistently and successfully. But her life might depend on his finding the right argument. ‘‘If you could pick up a residual aura from fragments of the bomb, you might be able to identify the person who planted it.’’
She bit her lip and looked down. The sidewalk here was old and canted as it climbed a hill. It glistened damply in the red-and-blue light from a neon sign on the store they were passing. So did her hair, black and lustrous.
Hunger bit, and frustration. He wanted his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers again. And didn’t dare touch her.
‘‘It’s called psychometry,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘And yes, it might work. I hadn’t thought of trying to trace the bomber that way. Are the fragments metal?’’
He had no idea if they’d even recovered any fragments. ‘‘I’ll have to check with Lorenzo about that. Will you do it?’’
She nodded slowly. ‘‘I’ll try, anyway. Tell him not to expect too much. Even if I do pick up a clear impression, I won’t be able to identify the person it came from unless I already know who that èssere belongs to.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Satisfaction filled him. At least he’d done one thing right tonight. As for the rest of it… He stopped, facing her and putting his hands on her shoulders.
Her skin was slick from the mist, but warm, not chilled. His thumbs moved, savoring the softness. ‘‘What I say next has nothing to do with Lorenzo or anything he wants from you. This is just from me.’’ It was true. True enough to worry his security-minded cousin. Hell, it worried him, too. ‘‘I want to see you again.’’
The dim light made secrets of her eyes, and her voice was too low to give anything away. But her shoulders were tense beneath his hands. ‘‘How long will you be in Montebello, Drew? A week? Two?’’
