I mentally waved the voice aside like a buzzing mosquito.
Back to the couple. The husband was bitching about the wife ordering fish for dinner when she knew he hated the smell of it.
“Which is why I have it when we’re out,” she snapped. “So I don’t stink up the kitchen cooking it and—”
That gruff voice at my ear interrupted her again, shrill now with alarm. “What the—?”
My head shot up, pulse accelerating, body tense with anticipation, as if my mental hound had just caught the scent of fresh T-bone steak.
“No! Please—!”
The plea slid into a wordless scream. One syllable, one split second, then the scream was cut short, and I was left hanging there, suspended, straining for more—
I turned to pinpoint the source of the chaos. Another jolt, this one too dark, too strong even for me, like that last gulp of champagne when you know you’ve already had too much and your stomach lurches in rebellion, the sweetness turning acid-sour.
“Hope?” Douglas’s hand slipped from my waist, and he leaned toward my ear to whisper, “Are you okay?”
“Bathroom,” I managed. “The champagne.”
“Here, let me take you.”
I brushed him off with a smile. Then I made my way across the room, my legs shaking, hoping I wasn’t staggering. By the time I reached the hall, the shock of that mental jolt had passed, replaced by an oddly calm curiosity.
A few more steps, and I wasn’t even sure whether what I’d felt had just happened. I often picked up strong residual vibes from events long past, like that dead buffet duck. I’m working on learning to distinguish residuals from current sources, but I’m always second-guessing myself.
When I arrived at the hall T-junction, I could detect traces of the chaos that had bitch-slapped me. That came from the right. But I caught another, fresher source of trouble to the left.
My attention naturally swung left. The chaos-puppy again, far more interested in that squirrel gamboling in plain sight than an old rabbit trail. I headed that way.
THREE
I looked around, then slipped past the sign reminding guests that this area wasn’t part of the gala. In other words: keep out, worded nicely to avoid insulting current and future museum benefactors.
As the sounds of the party faded behind me, the clicking of my heels echoed louder. I backed into a recessed doorway and removed them. Then, with the shoe straps threaded through my purse, I leaned from the doorway, looked both ways, crept out, and padded down the hall.
I’d nearly made it to the end when a flashlight beam bounced off the walls. I backpedaled, heart tripping. A security guard’s shoes clomped through the next room then receded, and I started out again.
At the end of the hall, I peeked into the next room. The chaos signal was stronger now, a siren’s call coming from yet another darkened hallway. As I stepped into the room, the red light of a surveillance camera blinked.
I scooted back, then crouched and shuffled forward, too low for the camera to pick up. I craned my head to look for that light. There it was—a video camera lens fixed on the display cases in the middle of the room.
Squinting, I charted a safe path around the perimeter. Still crouched, face turned from the camera, I edged forward. It wasn’t easy, moving in the near darkness through an unfamiliar room dotted with obstacles—priceless obstacles—but I reveled in every terrified heart-thump. Part of me wanted to rise above that, to pooh-pooh skulking about dark corridors as an inconvenient and even silly part of my job. I blame growing up in a world that prized detachment and emotional control. But that only made the thrill more precious, the glittering allure of the forbidden … or at least the unseemly.
I made it to the next hall. This time I had the foresight to look before I strolled in. I needed more practice at this sort of thing.
As I peered around the corner, I saw, not a room, but another corridor, this one wide and inviting, with a carpeted floor and benches. Paintings and prints decorated the left wall. The right needed no adornment—it was a sloping sheet of glass overlooking the special exhibit gallery below. I had seen Tutankhamen in that gallery, relics from the Titanic, peat bog mummies, and, most recently, feathered dinosaurs. Now, if I remembered correctly, it displayed a traveling collection of jewelry.
This second-story viewing hall stretched along two sides of the gallery below. Through the glass, I saw the pale circle of a face. I eased back, but the face stayed where it was, bobbing, as if the owner was cleaning the glass. A janitor? Was my trouble alert on the fritz again? I really needed more practice.
A shard of light reflected off the glass on the other side. Again I moved back, expecting the guard with his bouncing flashlight. But by then my eyes had adjusted enough for me to see the light reflecting off a sheet of glass … in a pair of dark-gloved hands.
I bit back a laugh. So that’s what I’d picked up—not a janitor or some bored partygoer wandering around off-limits areas, but a robbery-in-progress. My gaze still fixed on the would-be thief, I reached into my purse.
My fingers brushed two objects that Tristan insisted I carry at all times: a gun and a pair of handcuffs. Even tonight, when I was off duty, he’d been so concerned for my safety that he’d had me meet someone from the council security detail so I could pass my gun and cuffs to him and pick them up again inside the gala, circumventing the security at the door. Overkill, but it was sweet of him to care.
I’d rolled my eyes as I’d gone through Tristan’s cloak-and-dagger routine, but now I was actually in a position where guns and cuffs could come in handy. That would add some excitement to my night. But no. Apprehending a common thief wasn’t my job, no matter how tempting. Instead, I pulled out my cell phone to call the police.
Across the way, the thief was climbing over the edge, through the hole he’d cut in the glass. I paused, phone in hand. How would he get down? Rappel? Lower himself like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible? I’d just see how he did this and then call—
The man jumped.
I gasped. It was a thirty-foot drop. Surely he’d break—
The man landed on his feet as easily as if he’d hopped off a two-foot ledge.
I put my phone away. No human could make such a leap, not like that. I knew now why I’d picked up the trouble signal so clearly from so far. A supernatural thief. This was my job after all.
The figure moved across the well-lit gallery. His back was to me as he started working on the security panel.
Knowing his supernatural race would help. The first time I’d followed a paranormal lead from True News without council backup, I’d ended up with second-degree burns from a very pissed-off fire half-demon.
I looked down at the man. No clues there. There never were. Half-demons, witches, sorcerers, werewolves, vampires … you couldn’t tell by looking. Or, with the vampires and werewolves, I’d heard you couldn’t tell. I’ve never met one of either race, both being rare and cliquish.
He could be a vampire. Vampires had more than their share of thieves—natural stealth combined with invulnerability made it a good career choice. A vampire could probably have made that jump.
As he continued working on the security panel, I ran through a few other possibilities. My mental databanks overflowed with supernatural data, most for types I had never—and likely would never—meet.