Ceremony In Death

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Eve was elbow deep in paperwork the next morning, the odd wakefulness in the night was forgotten. New York seemed to be content to bask in the balmy days of early autumn and behave itself. It seemed like a good time to take a few hours and organize her office.

Or rather to delegate Peabody to organize it.

"How can your files be this skewed?" Peabody demanded. Her earnest, square face expressed deep remorse and disappointment.

"I know where everything is," Eve told her. "I want you to put everything where I'll still know where it is, but where it also makes sense for it to be. Too tough an assignment, Officer?"

"I can handle it." Peabody rolled her eyes behind Eve's back. "Sir."

"Fine. And don't roll your eyes at me. If things are a bit skewed, as you put it, it's because I've had a busy year. As we're in the last quarter of this one and I'm training you, it falls to me to dump this on you." Eve turned and smiled thinly. "With the hope, Peabody, that you will one day have an underling to dump shit assignments on."

"Your faith in me is touching, Dallas. Chokes me up." She hissed at the computer. "Or maybe it's the fact that you've got yellow sheets in here from five years ago that's choking me. These should have been downloaded to the main and cleared out of your unit after twenty-four months."

"So download and clear now." Eve's smile widened as the machine hacked, then droned out a warning of system failure. "And good luck."

"Technology can be our friend. And like any friendship, it requires regular maintenance and understanding."

"I understand it fine." Eve stepped over, pounded her fist twice on the drive. The unit hiccupped back into running mode. "See?"

"You have a real smooth touch, Lieutenant. That's why the guys in Maintenance shoot air darts at your picture."

"Still? Christ, they hold a grudge." With a shrug, Eve sat on the corner of the desk. "What do you know about witchcraft?''

"If you want to cast a spell on your machine here, Dallas, it's a little out of my field." Teeth clenched, she juggled and compressed files.

"You're a Free-Ager."

"Lapsed. Come on, come on, you can do it," she muttered at the computer. "Besides," she added. "Free-Agers aren't Wiccans. They're both earth religions, and both are based on natural orders, but… son of a bitch, where'd it go?"

"What? Where did what go?"

"Nothing." Shoulders hunched, Peabody guarded the monitor. "Nothing. Don't worry, I'm on it. You probably didn't need those files, anyway."

"Is that a joke, Peabody?"

"You bet. Ha ha." A line of sweat dribbled down her back as she attacked the keys. "There. There it is. No problem, no problem at all. And off it goes into the main. Neat and tidy." She let out an enormous sigh. "Could I maybe have some coffee? Just to keep alert."

Eve shifted her gaze to the screen, saw nothing that looked ominous. Saying nothing, she rose and ordered coffee from the AutoChef.

"Why do you want to know about Wicca? You thinking of converting?" At Eve's bland look, Peabody tried a smile. "Another joke."

"You're full of them today. Just curious."

"Well, there's some overlap on basic tenets between Wiccans and Free-Agers. A search for balance and harmony, the celebration of the seasons that goes back to ancient times, the strict code of nonviolence."

"Nonviolence?" Eve narrowed her eyes. "What about curses, casting spells, and sacrifices? Naked virgins on the altar and black roosters getting their heads chopped off?''

"Fiction depicts witches that way. You know, 'Double, double, toil and trouble.' Shakespeare. Macbeth."

Eve snorted. "'I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.' " The Wicked Witch of the West. Classic vid channel.

"Good one," Peabody admitted. "But both examples feed into the most basic of misconceptions. Witches aren't ugly, evil crones mixing up cauldrons of goop or hunting down young girls and their friendly, talking scarecrows. Wiccans like to be naked, but they don't hurt anything or anyone. Strictly white magic."

"As opposed to?"

"Black magic."

Eve studied her aide. "You don't believe in that stuff? Magic and spells?"

"Nope." Revived with coffee, Peabody turned back to the computer. "I know some of the basics because I have a cousin who shifted to Wicca. He's into it big time. Joined a coven in Cincinnati."

"You've got a cousin in a coven in Cincinnati." Laughing, Eve set her own coffee aside. " Peabody, you never cease to amaze me."

"One day I'll tell you about my granny and her five lovers."

"Five lovers isn't abnormal for a woman's lifetime."

"Not in her lifetime; last month. All at the same time." Peabody glanced up, deadpan. "She's ninety-eight. I hope to take after her."

Eve swallowed her next chuckle as her tele-link beeped. " Dallas." She watched Commander Whitney's face swim on-screen. "Yes, Commander."

"I'd like to speak with you, Lieutenant, in my office. As soon as possible."

"Yes, sir. Five minutes." Eve disengaged, shot a hopeful glance at Peabody. "Maybe we've got something going. Keep working on those files. I'll contact you if we're heading out."

She started out, stuck her head back in. "Don't eat my candy bar."

"Damn," Peabody said under her breath. "She never misses."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Whitney had spent most of his life behind a badge and a large part of his professional life in command. He made it his business to know his cops, to judge their strengths and weaknesses. And he knew how to utilize both.

He was a big man with workingman hands and dark, keen eyes that some considered cold. His temperament, on the surface, was almost terrifyingly even. And like most smooth surfaces, it coated something dangerous brewing beneath.

Eve respected him, occasionally liked him, and always admired him.

He was at his desk when she stepped into his office, lines of concentration puckering his brow as he read over some hard copy. He didn't glance up, merely gestured toward a chair. She sat, watched an air tram rumble by his window, baffled as always by the number of passengers with binoks and spy glasses.

What did they expect to see behind the windows where cops worked? she wondered. Suspects being tortured, weapons discharged, victims bleeding and weeping? And why would the fantasy of such misery entertain them?

"I saw you at the viewing last night."

Eve shifted her thoughts and attention to her commander. "I imagine most every cop in Central made an appearance."

"Frank was well-liked."

"Yes, he was."

"You never worked with him?"

"He gave me some pointers when I was a rookie, helped out on legwork a couple of times, but no, I never worked with him directly."

Whitney nodded, kept his eyes on hers. "He was partnered with Feeney, before your time. You were partnered with Feeney after Frank shifted from the streets to a desk."

She began to get an uncomfortable feeling in the gut. Something here, she thought. Something's off. "Yes, sir. This has hit Feeney pretty hard."

"I'm aware of that, Dallas. Which is why Captain Feeney isn't here this morning." Whitney propped his elbows on his desk, linked his fingers, folded his fingers over. "We have a possible situation, Lieutenant. A delicate situation."

"Regarding DS Wojinski?"

"The information I'm going to relay to you is confidential. Your aide can be apprised per your discretion, but no one else on the force. No one in the media. I am asking you, ordering you," he corrected, "to essentially work alone on this matter."

The discomfort in her stomach spread into little licks of fear as she thought of Feeney. "Understood."

"There is some question regarding the circumstances of DS Wojinski's death."

"Question, Commander?''

"You'll require some background data." He laid his folded hands on the edge of the desk. "It has come to my attention that DS Wojinski was either pursuing an investigation of his own off the clock or involved with illegals."

"Drugs? Frank? Nobody was cleaner than Frank."

Whitney didn't so much as blink. "On September twenty-second of this year, DS Wojinski was spotted by an undercover illegals detective allegedly conducting business in a suspected chemical distribution center. The Athame is a private club, religious in theme, which offers its members group and individual ritual services and is licensed for private sexual functions. The Illegals Division has had it under investigation for nearly two years. Frank was seen making a buy."

When Eve said nothing, Whitney drew a long breath. "This situation was subsequently reported to me. I questioned Frank, and he was not forthcoming." Whitney hesitated, then followed through. "Frankly, Dallas, the fact that he would neither confirm nor deny, refused to explain or discuss, seemed very out of character. And it worried me. I ordered him to submit to a physical, including a drug scan, advised him to take a week's leave. He agreed to both. The scan was, at that point, clear. Due to his record and my personal knowledge and opinion of him, I did not mark the incident in his file, but sealed it."

He rose then, turned to his window. "Perhaps that was a mistake. It's possible if I had pursued the matter at that point, he would still be alive, and we wouldn't be having this discussion."

"You trusted your judgment and your man."

Whitney turned back. His eyes were dark; they were intense but not cold. Eve thought. They felt. "Yes, I did. And now I have more data. The standard autopsy on DS Wojinski detected traces of digitalis and Zeus."

"Zeus." Now Eve rose. "Frank was not a user, Commander. Putting aside who and what he was, a chemical as powerful as Zeus shows. You see it in the eyes, in the personality shift. If he'd been using Zeus, every cop in his division would have known it. The drug scan would have picked it up. There has to be a mistake."

She dug her hands into her pockets, willed herself not to pace. "Yeah, there are cops who use, and there are cops who figure their badges shield them from the law. But not Frank. No way was he dirty."

"But the traces were there, Lieutenant. As well as traces of other chemicals, identified as designer clones. The combination of those chemicals resulted in cardiac arrest and death."

"You suspect he OD'd, or self-terminated?" She shook her head. "That's wrong."

"I repeat, the traces were there."

"Then there had to be a reason. Digitalis?" She frowned. "That's heart medicine, isn't it? You said he'd had a physical a couple of weeks ago. Why didn't it show he had heart trouble?"

Whitney's gaze remained level. "Frank's closest friend on the force is the top E-detective in the city."

"Feeney?" Eve took two strides forward before she could stop herself. "You think Feeney covered for him, doctored his records? Damn it, Commander."

"It's a possibility I can't ignore," Whitney said evenly. "Nor can you. Friendship can and does shadow judgment. I am trusting that your friendship with Feeney will not, in this case, shadow yours."

He walked to the desk again, his position of authority. "These allegations and suspicions must be investigated and resolved."

The hot licks in her stomach had grown and were burning like acid. "You want me to investigate fellow officers. One of which is dead, leaving a grieving family behind. The other of which was my trainer and is my friend." She put her hands on the desk. "Is your friend."

He'd expected the anger, accepted it. Just as he expected she would do the job. He wouldn't accept less. "Would you prefer I gave this to someone who didn't care?" His brow lifted on the question. "I want this done quietly, with each piece of evidence and all investigative records sealed for my eyes only. It may be necessary for you to speak with DS Wojinski's family at some point. I trust you will do so discreetly and tactfully. There is no need to add to their grief."

"And if I turn something up that smears a lifetime of public service?"

"That will be for me to deal with."

She straightened. "It's a hell of a thing you're asking me to do."

"Ordering you to do," Whitney corrected. "That should make it easier, Lieutenant. On you." He handed her two sealed discs. "View these on your home unit. Any and all transmissions on this matter are to be sent from your home unit to my home unit. Nothing is to go through Cop Central until I tell you differently. Dismissed."

She turned on her heel, walked to the door. There she paused but didn't look back. "I won't roll over on Feeney. Damned if I will."

Whitney watched her stride out, then closed his eyes. She would do what needed to be done, he knew. He only hoped it wasn't more than she could live with.

Her temper was bubbling by the time she got back to her own office. Peabody sat in front of the monitor, smirking.

"Just about got it knocked. Your unit's a real whiner, Dallas, but I've been slapping it into shape."

"Disengage," Eve snapped and grabbed up her jacket and bag. "Get your gear, Peabody."

"We've got a case?" Revving up, Peabody jumped out of the chair and hustled after Eve. "What kind of case? Where are we going?" She broke into a trot to keep up. " Dallas? Lieutenant?"

Eve slapped the control on the elevator, and the single furious look she shot at Peabody was enough to stifle any further questions. Eve stepped into the elevator, shuffled into position with several noisy cops, and stood in stony silence.

"Hey, Dallas, how's the newly wed? Why don't you get your rich husband to buy the Eatery and stock some real food."

She flicked a steely glare over her shoulder, stared into a face of a grinning cop. "Bite me, Carter."

"Hey, I gave that a shot three years ago, and you nearly broke all my teeth. Holding out for a civilian," he said when laughter erupted.

"Holding out for somebody who isn't the major asshole of Robbery," someone else put in.

"Better than being the minor one, Forenski. Hey, Peabody," Carter continued. "Want me to bite you?"

"Is your dental plan up to date?"

"I'll check on that and get back to you." With a wink, Carter and several others piled out.

"Carter puts the moves on anything female," Peabody said conversationally, worried that Eve continued to stare straight ahead. "Too bad he's an asshole." No response. "Ah, Forenski's kind of cute," Peabody continued. "He doesn't have a steady personal partner, does he?"

"I don't poke into the private lives of fellow officers," Eve snapped back, and strode out onto the garage level.

"You don't mind poking into mine," Peabody said under her breath. She waited while Eve uncoded her car locks, then climbed into the passenger seat. "Am I to log in destination, sir, or is it a surprise?" Then she blinked when Eve simply laid her head against the wheel. "Hey, are you all right? What's going on, Dallas?"

"Log in home office." Eve drew a breath, straightened. "I'll fill you in on the way. All information you're given and all records on the ensuing investigation are to be coded and sealed." Eve maneuvered out of the garage and onto the street. "All said information and records are confidential. You are to report only to me or the commander."

"Yes, sir." Peabody swallowed the obstruction that had lodged in her throat. "It's internal, isn't it? It's one of us."

"Yeah. Goddamn it. It's one of us."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Her home unit didn't have the eccentricities of her official computer. Roarke had seen to that. The data scrolled smoothly on-screen.

"Detective Marion Burns. She's been undercover at The Athame for eight months, working as a bartender." Eve pursed her lips. "Burns. I don't know her."

"I do, slightly." Peabody scooted her chair a bit closer to Eve's. "I met her when I was… you know, during the Casto thing. She struck me as a solid, eyes-on-the-job sort. If memory serves, she's third generation cop. Her mother's still on the job. Captain, I think, in Bunko. Her grandfather went out line of duty during the Urban Wars. I don't know why she'd have fingered DS Wojinski."

"Maybe she reported what she saw, or maybe it's something else. We'll have to find out. Her report to Whitney's pretty cut and dried. At one hundred thirty hours, September 22, 2058, she observed DS Wojinski seated at a private booth with known chemical dealer Selina Cross. Wojinski exchanged credits for a small package, which appeared to contain an illegal substance. The conversation and exchange lasted fifteen minutes, at which time Cross moved to another booth. Wojinski remained in the club another ten minutes, then left. Detective Burns tailed the subject for two blocks at which time he engaged a public transport."

"So she never saw him use."

"No. And she never saw him return to the club that night or on any subsequent night during her watch. Burns goes top of our list for questioning."

"Yes, sir. Dallas, since Wojinski and Feeney were tight, wouldn't it follow that Wojinski would have confided in him? Or failing that, that Feeney would have noticed… something."

"I don't know." Eve rubbed her eyes. "The Athame. What the hell's an athame?"

"I don't know." Peabody pulled out her palm PC and requested the data. "Athame, ceremonial knife, a ritual tool normally fashioned of steel. Traditionally the athame is not used for cutting, but for casting or banishing circles in earth religions."

Peabody glanced up at Eve. "Witchcraft," she continued. "That's quite a coincidence."

"I don't think so." She took the note from Alice out of her desk drawer, passed it to Peabody. "Frank's granddaughter slipped this to me at the viewing. Turns out she works at some shop called Spirit Quest. Do you know it?''

"I know what it is." Troubled now, Peabody set the note down. "Wiccans are peaceful, Dallas. And they use herbs, not chemicals. No true Wiccan's going to buy, sell, or use Zeus."

"How about digitalis?" Eve cocked her head. "That's kind of an herb, isn't it?"

"It's distilled from foxglove. It's been used medicinally for centuries."

"It's what, like a stimulant?"

"I don't know that much about healing, but yeah, I'd think."

"So's Zeus. I wonder what kind of effect you'd get combining the two. Bad mix, wrong dosage, whatever, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get heart failure."

"You think Wojinski self-terminated?"

"The commander suspects it, and I've got questions," Eve said impatiently. "I don't have answers. But I'm going to get them." She picked up the note. "We'll start tonight, with Alice. I want you there at eleven, in civilian clothes. Try to look like a Free-Ager, Peabody, not a cop."

Peabody winced. "I've got this dress my mother made for my last birthday. But I'll get really pissed off if you laugh."

"I'll try to control myself. For now, let's see what we can dig up on this Selina Cross and The Athame Club."

Five minutes later, Eve was smiling grimly at her machine. "Interesting. Our Selina's been around. Spent some time in a cage. Just look at this yellow sheet, Peabody. Soliciting sex without a license, '43, '44. Assault charge also in '44, subsequently dropped. Ran into Bunko in '47, running a medium scam. What the hell do people want to talk to the dead for, anyway? Suspected of animal mutilations, '49. Not enough evidence for arrest. Manufacturing and distribution of illegals. That's what tagged her and put her away from '50 to '51. All small-time shit, though. But here in '55, she was brought in and questioned in connection with the ritual slaying of a minor. Her alibi held."

"Illegals has had her under observation since she was sprung in '51," Peabody added.

"But they haven't brought her in."

"Like you said, she's small-time. They must be looking for a bigger fish."

"That would be my take. We'll see what Marion has to say. Look here, it says Selina Cross owns The Athame Club, free and clear." Eve pursed her lips. "Now, where would a small-time dealer get the credit power to buy and run a club? She's a front. I wonder if Illegals knows for who. Let's take a look at. her. Computer, display image of subject, Cross, Selina."

"Whew." Peabody gave a little shudder as the image floated on-screen. "Spooky."

"Not a face you'd forget," Eve murmured.

It was sharp and narrow, the lips full and vibrant red, the eyes black as onyx. There was beauty there, in the balance of features, the white, smooth skin, but it was cold. And as Peabody had observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.

"What's that symbol?" Eve wondered. "Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent."

"A pentagram." Peabody's voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. "Inverted. She's not Wiccan, Dallas." Peabody cleared her throat. "She's a Satanist."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve didn't believe in such things – the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.

"Be careful what you discount, Eve."

Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn't complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.

"What do you mean?''

"I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there's a reason for it."

"Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I'm going to find out if someone exploited Frank's."

She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn't tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.

"You're a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you're too good a cop and too sensible a woman." He stopped for traffic, turned to her. "I'm asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this."

His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. "You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we're into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ's sake!" She pushed her hair back from her face. "What the hell do they think they'd do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.

"Devils exist." Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. "And they're flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them."

She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.

Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soy-dogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.

Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.

The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.

She would have hated to live there.

"We're early," she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. "Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They're open." On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. "You game?"

"You want your palm read?"

"What the hell." She grabbed his hand. "It'll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they'll cut us a deal and do yours for half price."

"No."

"You never know unless you ask."

"I'm not having mine read."

"Coward," she muttered and tugged him through the door.

"I prefer the word careful."

She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was a light fragrance of spice and flowers that meshed perfectly with the airy music.

Small white tables and chairs were arranged at a nice distance from the display counter where bowls and plates of colorful food were presented behind sparkling glass. Two customers sat together over bowls of clear soup. Both of them sported flowing white robes, jeweled sandals, and shaved heads.

Behind the counter was a man with silver rings on every finger. He wore a wide-sleeved shirt in quiet blue. His blonde hair was neatly braided and twined with silver cord. He smiled in welcome.

"Blessed be. Do you wish food for the body or for the soul?"

"I thought you were supposed to know." Eve grinned at him. "How about a reading?"

"Palm, Tarot, runes, or aura?"

"Palm." Enjoying herself, Eve stuck her hand out.

"Cassandra is our palmist. If you'd take a comfortable seat, she'll be happy to help you. Sister," he added as she started to turn, "your auras are very strong, vibrant. You are well-matched." With this, he picked up a wooden stick with a rounded edge and ran it gently over the rim of a white frosted bowl.

Even as the vibration sang, a woman stepped through the beaded curtain separating a back room. She wore a silver tunic with a silver bracelet coiled above her elbow. Eve noted that she was very young, barely twenty, and like the man, her hair was blonde and coiled into a braid.

"Welcome." Her voice held a hint of Ireland. "Please be comfortable. Would you both like a reading?''

"No, just me." Eve took a seat at a far table. "What's it run?"

"The reading is free. We request a donation, only." She sat gracefully, smiled at Roarke. "Your generosity will be appreciated. Madam, the hand you were born with."

"I came with both of them."

"The left, please." She cupped her fingers under Eve's offered hand, barely touching at first. "Strength and courage. Your fate was not set. A trauma, a break in the lifeline. Very young. You were only a child. Such pain, such sadness." She lifted her gaze, clear gray. "You were, and are, without blame."

She tightened her grip when Eve instinctively drew back. "It's not necessary to remember all, until you're ready. Sorrow and self-doubt, passions blocked. A solitary woman who chose to focus on one goal. A great need for justice. Disciplined, self-motivated… troubled. Your heart was broken, more than broken. Mauled. So you guarded what was left. It's a capable hand. One to trust."

She took Eve's right hand firmly, but barely looked at it. Those clear gray eyes stayed on Eve's face. "You carry much of what was inside you. It will not be quiet, it will not rest. But you've found your place. Authority suits you, as does the responsibility that marches with it. You're stubborn, often single-focused, but your heart is greatly healed. You love."

She flicked a glance at Roarke again, and her mouth softened when she looked back at Eve. "It surprises you, the depth of this. It unnerves you, and you are not easily unnerved." Her thumb skimmed over the top of Eve's palm. "Your heart runs deep. It is… choosy. It is careful, but when it's given, it's complete. You carry identification. A badge." She smiled slowly. "Yes, you made the right choice. Perhaps the only one you could have made. You've killed. More than once. There was no alternative for you, yet this weighs heavy on your mind and heart. In this, you find it difficult to separate the intellect from the emotion. You'll kill again."

The gray eyes went glassy, and the light grip tightened. "It's dark. The forces are dark here. Evil. Lives already lost, and others yet to lose. Pain and fear. Body and soul. You must protect yourself and those you love."

She turned to Roarke, snagging his hand and speaking rapidly in Gaelic. Her face had gone very white, and her breath hitched.

"That's enough." Shaken, Eve snatched her hand back. "Hell of a show." Irritated that her palm tingled, she rubbed it hard against the knee of her slacks. "You've got a good eye, Cassandra, is it? And an impressive spiel." She dug into her pocket, took out fifty in credits and laid them on the table.

"Wait." Cassandra opened a small, embroidered pouch at her waist, plucked out a smooth stone in pale green. "A gift. A token." She pushed it into Eve's hand. "Carry it with you."

"Why?"

"Why not? Please come again. Blessed be."

Eve caught one last glance at her pale face before Cassandra hurried into the back room with a musical jingle of beads.

"Well, so much for 'You're taking a long ocean voyage,' " Eve muttered as she headed for the door. "What did she say to you?"

"Her dialect was a bit thick. I'd say she's from the west counties." He stepped outside, oddly relieved to draw in the night air. "The gist was that if I loved you as much as she believed, I would stay close. That you're in danger of losing your life, perhaps your soul, and you need me to survive it."

"What a crock." She glanced down at the stone in her hand.

"Keep it." Roarke closed her fingers over it. "Couldn't hurt."

With a shrug, Eve pushed it into her pocket. "I think I'm going to steer clear of psychics."

"An excellent idea," Roarke said with feeling as he walked with her across the street and into the Aquarian Club.