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“Yes ma’am.”

“If Miss Tanner feared vampires, that could mean she was afraid of being drained of power, of energy.”

She heard Butch say, away from the mouthpiece, “She thinks maybe the dead psychic was worried about being drained of power.”

“Could be she just went into withdrawal when Anne Rice moved to the suburbs,” said Chopin.

“Could be,” insisted Faith, “that she was predicting something about her own death. Being murdered is about as drained as a girl can get, isn’t it? Did either of you nice detectives get the impression that the murderer might believe in magic?”

“I fear we’ve been too short on likely suspects to do that kind of questioning,” admitted Butch. Whether or not that part was true.

“Well, y’all should check. All kinds of details could have magical meaning, which could tell you something about your killer. For example, if you found salt at the crime scene.” She knew they had. “Salt’s a protective substance, magically speaking. Or if there’s a chance she was strangled with something made of natural fiber, that would indicate a killer who’s concerned with energy transference.”

She’d learned of the dreams from Absinthe. Moonsong had explained the significance of salt, and of a silk cord versus, say, nylon.

“You don’t say,” mused Butch. “Miss Cassie, I do believe you may be on to something here.”

Then she had to wait while he repeated the insight to his partner and fielded the usual smart-mouthed responses. Faith shifted her weight, feeling exposed in the bluish light, filtered by displays of wavering water. The Aquarium of the Americas would be closing in half an hour. She hoped to finish this call before they made any kind of announcement that would tell the detectives where she was.

She also wore a black wig and sunglasses, in hopes of skewing anyone’s description if the police traced the call and come around asking questions.

It was during long delays like this that she got the most paranoid. She also didn’t like having the time to notice that whoever had used this public phone before her had drunk more than one hurricane. It reeked of rum.

“So what’s your opinion, Miss Cassie?” asked Butch. “Was Krystal Tanner killed by one of her spiritualist co-workers?”

“No! I mean—most folks who work on, shall we say, the edge of expected reality? They understand the consequences of karma. If this man you’re after wanted to take Krystal Tanner’s energy, he’s likely some kind of untrained wannabe.”

“Why is it you think that?”

“Only two things could make him think he can escape the karmic repercussions of murder, Detective Sergeant. Either he’s got such strong personal power, psychic shields, that he doesn’t have to worry about it—in which case he’d know that someone else’s energy wouldn’t do him a whole lot of good—or he’s too ignorant to know better.”

Butch murmured what she’d said to his partner, then asked, “Do you have anything else for us just now, Miss Cassie?”

She heard a slow beeping on his end of the line, like a car door had been opened while the key was still in the ignition. They’d arrived at wherever they were going.

“If this fellow’s a wannabe magic user, he might try some kind of crash course,” she suggested. “There’s a psychic fair Wednesday night at the Biltmore Hotel.”

“The one that had those strange fires last year?” Apparently the damage had been almost entirely external. Then again, almost every old building in the Quarter had some strange story to tell.

“That’s the one. There won’t just be readers there, there’ll be experts offering classes. Someone who wants to learn about manipulating energy, chances are he’ll show up.” That had been her first introduction to the magic community of New Orleans, anyway. “And on the chance that he might be looking for more victims, that would be the place.”

“I appreciate that advice,” said Butch. “But if you don’t mind me asking, Miss Cassie…”

Which was when she felt them. Rather, felt him.

Roy Chopin was like a walking car alarm of energy—and he was getting closer. They’d traced the damn call!

“Tsk, tsk,” said Faith, frowning, and hung up.

Then she headed deeper into the aquarium, mingling with the other visitors, and was around a corner before the detectives ever made it through the entrance, much less to the pay phones.

He loved that they were all frightened of Him.

He was, in fact, the talk of the Crescent City Psychic Fair! For a while He felt happy just sitting outside one of the ballrooms at the Biltmore, watching the people come and go, listening to their conversations. He could tell some of the psychics by how they dressed—tie-dyed shirts, multiple necklaces with different charms hung on them, gauzy, sparkly skirts. They were the ones who talked 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.