Contact. Evelyn Vaughn

that a person keep private problems like STDs or past relationships quiet until at least the second date…or before getting naked, whichever came first. Why was her own freakishness any different?

      Now she could barely breathe past the butterflies. What had she done?

      She’d taken a defiant stab at being normal, that’s what.

      “Good,” said Roy, with a decisive nod. She could tell he was pleased, though he hid it well. “Now, could we move on to the important stuff? How long have you known these people? Not because you’re a suspect—but how well do you understand them?”

      It was easier, talking about impersonal things like the New Orleans occult community. And the Big Easy definitely had a thriving occult community. Of course, Chopin—Roy—knew a lot already. He’d seen the Voodoo Museum and Marie Laveau’s tomb. He knew where the vampire bars were—not for true immortals, as far as Faith knew, but for wannabes marginally more Goth than Absinthe. Lord knew Roy couldn’t have patrolled Jackson Square without seeing the readers. But he’d never taken the time to learn what really motivated the psychics.

      Until now. When in detective mode, he wasn’t a lousy listener.

      Faith explained that none of them seemed to be cult members—an official cult had to have a leader, and the majority of psychics were self-taught. She clarified the more innocent reasons that readers often chose new names, and how careful most of them were to abide by the vice laws that—hopefully—kept people from being defrauded by cons like the old curse-removal ploy. She thought she did a pretty good job at not focusing too intently on the detective’s thick wrists while she talked, or the dark hair on the back of his wrists, or his big hands as he cradled his cup of coffee and stared intently at her, listening. She thought she managed not to breathe in his scent and think about their upcoming date too often.

      Would he touch her?

      Would he kiss her?

      Did she want him to?

      How ridiculous was it that she was freaking about something this basic at twenty-two years old! It was time to practice Krystal’s quiet breathing techniques.

      “So upstairs,” he said, thankfully oblivious, “some of the readers as you call ’em only charge a nickel a pop.”

      “Nothing that cheap,” said Faith. “It starts at five dollars….”

      Roy grinned as if she’d said something cute. He looked a lot more approachable when he grinned, even if it was mocking. “Butch was right. You are an innocent. A nickel is five dollars, hon. And when I say that for some of those readers, you need a Jackson to get past the door…?”

      She didn’t like being an innocent. It sounded too close to being stupid. “You mean a twenty? Got it.”

      “So why the difference? I mean, it’s fantasyland either way. Do they actually think there’s something there?”

      “It’s not fantasyland.”

      He cocked his head as if waiting for the punch line.

      “Really,” she insisted. “Some of the readers are so good it’s uncanny—”

      “Look, Corbett, I’ve read reports. There’s all kinds of tricks people use to make it seem like they’re reading your mind when they’re just telling you what you want to hear. Now if Miss Cleo up there’s only charging a Jackson for it, I can live and let live—I mean, it would cost that much for a hand…uh, for, uh, other kinds of happy feelings that are less legal. If you know what I mean.”

      He paused, examining her. “I honestly don’t know if you do know what I mean. I think I like that about you.”

      She was pretty sure she did know what he meant, but it seemed counterproductive to say so. Especially when her tummy was flip-flopping just because he’d said he liked her.

      Get a grip. You aren’t even sure you like him!

      “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?