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“So the amount they charge makes a difference to you?” she asked.

“The clients are asking to be duped. But what I want to know is, do these people honestly not realize they’re fleecing anybody?”

“Maybe you should get to know them better.” Faith couldn’t keep the ice out of her tone, and Roy visibly drew back. “If you did, you’d know that the majority of psychic readers are honest people trying to provide an honest service. They aren’t fleecing anybody. They decide what to charge based on who’s been practicing the longest and who has the best track record.”

“Come on. If everyone up there was really psychic, why wouldn’t they win the lottery instead of getting paid a few Jacksons at a time?”

“This is a psychic fair. It’s community outreach. Personal readings cost a lot more than a few Jacksons.”

“Not an argument in their favor.”

“And psychic abilities don’t necessarily work that way. How’s your eyesight?”

Damn, but he had expressive eyebrows. “Come again?”

“You’ve got pretty good eyesight, right?”

“Sure.”

“So tell me who’s standing in front of the Eiffel Tower right now.”

He snorted. “I couldn’t say.”

Faith folded her arms, trying to look severe. “I thought you had good eyesight. Were you conning me when you said you had good eyesight?”

“But,” he countered, clearly enjoying himself, “if I got on a plane and flew to Paris, I could describe anyone in front of the Eiffel Tower. Why wouldn’t one of those psychic types get on their imaginary plane and fly wherever they needed to go to get a good look at tomorrow’s lotto numbers?”

Which left Faith with nothing better than, “It doesn’t seem to work that way.” It sounded lame, even to her ears. “And then there’s karma.”

They scowled at each other. Then Roy tried a different angle. “So how good a rep did Krystal Tanner have? As a reader, I mean.”

“She was one of the best.” And she was. You’re so lonely, she’d told Faith during that first reading, and that without even touching her. Because you sense so much, you try not to sense anything at all. You haven’t found your soul mates yet—or they haven’t found you. You’re scared to let people know your secrets. So’s the woman who raised you…your mother…?

“Who else is considered good?”

Faith gave him a few names, most of whom were upstairs, several of whom were published. “Then there are some who don’t do the public fairs.”

“Name one.”

“Celeste Deveaux, I guess—she was a lousy fortune-teller, but she’s supposed to be an excellent medium. She doesn’t like doing readings for people whose grief is still fresh, so she avoids walk-in readings like this. There’s a witch who goes by Hecate who’s the real deal, but she’s out of state right now.”

He actually had his notepad out of his pocket, writing these down. “A witch. Great. Give me more.”

No, she thought, annoyed with his pushiness as well as his cynicism—and still, damn it, noticing his thick wrists. Then she had a truly bad idea. An unmistakably bad idea.

So why did it appeal so strongly?

You’re playing with fire. Don’t even think about it.

“Come on,” wheedled Roy, turning on the charm. He would never be a model, not with the tired eyes, definitely not with that nose. But something about him… “Someone. Anyone.”

By now, the alternative would have been to bite her tongue off. “She’s not well known, but I’ve heard rumors of someone in town who’s supposed to be very good. Very, very good. It’s a Greek name…Cassiopeia? No, that’s not it….”

He sat up. “Cassandra?”

She widened her eyes. He liked innocence? Well here was innocence. “That might be it.”

Roy was gritting his jaw so tightly as he shook his head that she feared he might break some teeth. Wow. He really didn’t like Cassandra, did he?

Better to know that now, she guessed. “Not that I’ve ever seen the woman. Apparently she keeps to herself.”

“Yeah, but you’ve heard something.” Like that, he was leaning over the table again, warm and demanding and coffee-scented. Practically leaning over her. Practically touching. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

Caught now, she would have been glad for almost any interruption.

She still felt a cold horror wash through her as she recognized something—a footstep, a heartbeat—behind her.

The killer was here.

And he was feeding.

Chapter 5

F aith spun in her chair and stared at the red-carpeted lobby, where at least two people had just left the hotel. It had been him. She was sure it had been him!

“And now I’m talking to myself,” muttered Roy, behind her.

She didn’t bother stopping to explain. She slid off her bistro chair and took off out of the bar.

“Hey!” Roy yelled. But Faith was busy racing across the oriental rug of the lobby, putting her shoulder into the revolving door, stepping out into the spattering rainfall that was New Orleans in August. She looked one way.

Nothing.

She looked the other.

Nothing. Rather, there were plenty of people heading in both directions, umbrellas hiding their faces or heads bent against the rain. This was the French Quarter! Tourists wandered, enjoying the rain like they might a special effect in a theme park. Partygoers hustled, trying to keep their good clothes dry. A trumpet player on the corner ignored the rain to wail out a tune reminiscent of Al Hirt, with a hat by his feet for wet tips. The air was thick with the perfume of plopping raindrops on hot concrete, underscored by the scent of the nearby river, of ice cream and soft pretzels, of wisteria from a nearby courtyard. But whatever Faith had sensed inside had faded.

It didn’t make any sense.

She’d felt him going in this direction! It wasn’t like he could suddenly ditch his unique heartbeat, like someone pulling off a mask…was it?

“What the hell was that?” The words, immediately behind her, didn’t startle her anywhere near the way Roy Chopin’s hands, catching her damp arms, did.

Oh, God! Like an exposed power line.

Faith stiffened, but not in time to escape the sudden burst of energy that sizzled through her, the emotions, the images. Someone fed him home cooking on a weekly basis. He liked beer. He spent too much time around the jail and the station and on the streets. His underlying edge of violence was a constant problem for him. He’d had sex sometime in the last month but that’s all it had been, sex, he didn’t love the woman—

With a mew of protest, she wrenched away from him, spun to face him.