Wicked Deeds. Heather Graham

of Hunters unit. But for now, Griffin would be getting back to work, they’d both be settling in to living together—and Vickie would be starting up with the next class for twenty weeks of training that would lead to her graduation and an official position with the Krewe.

      Vickie could have told Griffin about the dream. The Krewe were more than simply dedicated and well-trained agents. They had been gathered together carefully because they all had unique abilities, the center of those abilities being that they could communicate with the dead.

      When the dead chose, of course.

      She and Griffin had both known for years just what the other was capable of. While they had only rekindled their relationship recently, they had first met almost a decade ago—when a serial killer had nearly taken Vickie’s life. It had been a ghost, the older brother of the child she was babysitting, who had saved her by sending her running out of the house to safety, straight toward a young Officer Pryce. He’d been a cop before becoming an agent, though he had now been with the Krewe of Hunters for quite some time. He’d always known that he wanted to be in law enforcement.

      It wasn’t that way for Vickie.

      She loved history. She’d been a guide, leading youth-group tours as a historian, and she was an author of history books. She was proud to say that she was good at it—the most important reviews to her were the ones that said she had a way of making history fun for the reader.

      It was only the cases with which she had recently become involved that had made her want to veer in a new direction. Not a change—an addition. There had been a case in which an incarcerated serial killer had managed to reach out to strike again, and then another where modern-day Satanists had tried to bring the devil back to Massachusetts.

      She was now determined to do her best to become an agent herself, and it was a decision with which she was really pleased. It was odd to realize that she had once been embarrassed by her secret talent—the ability to speak with the dead. She hadn’t wanted to admit that it could be real. But she’d learned recently that her so-called curse allowed her to actually make a difference. She might have the ability to help in more bizarre cases—to save lives. And that mattered. To that end, she’d applied for and been accepted to the academy at Quantico. The Krewe might be a special unit, but even so, the agents were required to go through the academy. Vickie had passed the necessary tests on paper and made it through the grueling physical regimen necessary to become an agent.

      Griffin already had an apartment in a wonderful old row house in Alexandria. For him, it wasn’t a move—just a return to his home of the past several years. He had only been back in Boston—where he and Vickie both were born and raised—on assignment.

      Vickie had gone to college at NYU and then lived in New York for several years, but never farther south.

      It was, she’d assured him, exciting to move.

      But she was aware that Griffin believed it had to be a tug on her heartstrings as well—she was leaving a lot behind.

      And she was. But she was also happy to be moving forward.

      “A nightmare?” he repeated, and the note of worry seemed higher.

      She smiled, staring into his dark eyes. Griffin was fine with her decision to become an agent; the Krewe was composed of both men and women, and he knew women were every bit as efficient and excellent as agents as men.

      It was just her—but of course, he loved her. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to accept her walking into the same danger he did daily. He would, however, get used to it—and she loved him all the more for that fact.

      “No, not a nightmare!” she told him. He far too quickly became concerned for her. All it had been was a bizarre dream. It might well have been due to the way they’d overindulged in some delicious blue crabs at dinner last night.

      She would stay mum. For the moment. After all, she was in Baltimore. Edgar Allan Poe was buried here; he’d died here. Having dreams about him didn’t seem the least bit strange, actually.

      But for the moment...

      “It was a dream, and rather a cool one. I was walking around Baltimore...”

      “We’re in Baltimore, so that seems...normal, maybe?”

      She grinned, rolling onto an elbow to better face him—he’d already gotten up and showered and dressed for the day. He was an early riser—alert and ready to face the world as soon as he opened his eyes.

      Vickie...not so much! But she was getting used to early mornings.

      “Perfectly normal,” she told him. “It wasn’t a nightmare. It was just a dream. About beautiful old Baltimore—hey, it’s an important city, right? And we are going to go and do some cool things today, aren’t we?”

      “Absolutely,” he promised. “Fort McHenry, the Inner Harbor, Federal Hill—”

      “Don’t forget the aquarium!” she said.

      “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I thought we might want a full day for that. We can do whatever you choose, my love. Anything you would like.”

      “You’ve done it all too many times before?” she asked him.

      He laughed. “No. I mean, I have done it all before, but not with you, so it’s as if it’s the first time, right?”

      “That is an incredibly good suck-up line if I have ever heard one!” she assured him.

      She thought that the line might take them somewhere, but he smiled and stepped away from the bed.

      “I just have a couple of hours of work first,” he said.

      “What?”

      “Work. But there’s not much involved at the moment, and not much I can do.” He added quietly, “Franklin Verne—you know who he is?”

      “Yep. I’m living and breathing and have ears and eyes. You can’t miss him. What about him?”

      “He died last night.”

      “Oh, that’s too bad—terribly sad! I’ve seen him speak. I mean, I write nonfiction and he writes fiction, but I’ve been at a number of conferences where he’s been a speaker on a panel. He was charming and very funny...helpful, giving. He’s actually written some historical fiction, and while Verne tended toward horror—some action, some sci-fi and some mystery—he was a wonderful researcher as well.”

      “Always the writer!” he teased.

      “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” She’d spoken with other agents and she believed that—assuming she did make it through the academy—she’d still be welcome to write on her own time. It seemed that Krewe agents were, in fact, encouraged to keep up with any previous pursuits.

      “It’s fine!” he assured her quickly.

      “So what happened to Franklin Verne? I know that he was ill a few years ago—in fact, he joked about it sometimes when he spoke, saying that his wife taught him how to have fun and not be totally boring without a dip in a whiskey vat.”

      “Yes, I had heard that he was supposedly as clean as a newborn babe.”

      “Supposedly?”

      “He was found dead in a wine cellar.”

      “In a wine cellar—he didn’t have a wine cellar. I don’t think he even drank wine. When he did drink.”

      “Not his wine cellar. But how do you know he didn’t have a wine cellar?”

      “He was very open about his health problems, about his wild days—and his love for his wife,” Vickie said. “So, if not his own wine cellar—where then?”

      “The Black Bird.”

      “What?”

      “Amazing. That was my exact reaction when Jackson told me. Want to come