“You’re hitting it out of the park, baby.” Caroline Dare’s date, Jerald Layton, spoke softly in her ear. “I can hear the sweet cha-ching of money flowing in.” 

​

Caro mustered a smile. Jerald’s focus on sales was only natural for an ambitious stockbroker, but the comment grated on her. In the surroundings, it seemed crass. She wanted to sell her work, yes, but her family didn’t gloat in public. Thank goodness only Mom and Dad were near enough to overhear him.

 

The soft fizz of champagne in the flute she held sent ticklish bubbles up her nose. She didn’t need eyesight to know the art gallery was busy, even growing crowded. The mix of cheerful conversation, footsteps on hardwood flooring, and the mellow tones of a saxophone filled the air. 

​

Her magical senses picked out the denser, heavier energy of normal, or Mundane, humans and the more subtle, lighter vibes of the mageborn among them. Unlike other mages, maybe because she was blind, she “saw” their life energy as fuzzy-edged, three-dimensional human figures. With so many here, the room looked like clusters of energy forms. Her show had garnered a great turnout with corresponding sales. 

 

And yet.

 

“This is an excellent start,” her dad said quietly from her other side. But his quick squeeze of her shoulder conveyed his understanding that she couldn’t just bask in this success. He and her mom couldn’t either, and for the same reason.

 

Griffin wasn’t here.

 

Three years ago, he had gone from being one of the mage world’s top cops, one of its celebrated heroes, to becoming its most wanted fugitive. Coming out of hiding to attend this show could cost him his life.

If he was still alive.

 

“You have a great turnout,” her mom noted. “I think you’re launched, honey.”

 

“You and Dad had a lot to do with the turnout. Most of these people are your friends.”

 

“Some of them,” her father admitted, “but not all. Besides, people don’t write the checks they’re writing out of friendship.”

 

Caro hoped so. Since graduating from college five years ago, she’d worked as a researcher at her dad’s law office, but that had been only a stopgap. Art was her love, even though her blindness had stopped her from majoring in it in college. This was her chance to build a career doing what she truly loved. 

Jerald said, “It’s great that you folks could boost attendance for Caro’s debut. No sense having connections if you don’t use them.”

 

Caro winced inside. Mom and Dad probably were too. 

 

Jerald had been an interesting, even fun companion during their two dinner dates and the movie they’d shared. This evening, though, he was showing her a new and unappealing aspect of his personality.

“Lara,” her dad said, “there are the Kents. Let’s go say hello.”

​

Jerald shifted his balance as though to follow, but Dad said, “We’ll be right back, you two.”

​

He neatly deflected any attempt by Jerald to make a sales pitch at Caro’s gallery show. Thank goodness. 

 

“I don’t mind sticking with you, baby.” Jerald patted Caro’s arm. “Wouldn’t want you to wander away from the table and get all turned around.”

​

As though she would ever move without orienting herself. Caro gritted her teeth.  If she had to guess, she would say Jerald was trying to be attentive but with no clue that he was actually condescending.

 

As Caro’s parents moved away, other footsteps came closer, quick, light, with the click of high heels on hardwood—Belinda Parkhurst, the gallery owner—and a second set with a heavier, flatter tread. A man.

All mages could pick up traces of each other’s moods when in physical contact, and sometimes, when the other mage’s emotional walls were down, at close range. That was handy enough, but Caro had greater sensitivity than most. She could also sense Mundane moods.

 

Belinda emitted excitement and pleasure. Good. That confirmed things were going well. Because Caro had run her hands over a photo of the gallery owner, sensing the colors with touch, she could picture the tall, slender woman with her wavy, graying hair brushing her shoulders and her face rosy with satisfaction.

The man with Belinda gave off mage energy, strong and focused, but he felt more guarded. Friendly, but with his emotional walls up. 

​

They stopped in front of her.

​

“Caroline,” Belinda said, “this is Rick Moore from Georgia Arts Monthly. He wanted to say hello.”

 

Caro’s magical senses showed her a six-foot, broad-shouldered frame to Belinda’s left. She extended her right hand. “It was nice of you to come tonight, Mr. Moore.”

 

“I’m very glad I did.” 

 

His aged-whiskey voice had a faint rasp that created tingles inside her, and his friendly emotional vibe made an appealing contrast to Jerald’s condescension. When Moore clasped her hand in his warm, large one, her pulse took a little hop. Odd. But maybe the unusual intensity coming from him meant she wasn’t the only one affected.

 

He shook hands with just enough firmness to show he wasn’t babying her. At exactly the polite moment, he released her fingers.

​

Absently, Caro noted Belinda excusing herself. The gallery owner called out to a customer and hurried away.

​

Unfortunately, Jerald was emitting a new, disdainful vibe. Rick Moore apparently didn’t measure up to what Caro was coming to know as Jerald’s standards.

​

Jerald slid his arm around Caro’s waist. “Jerald Layton,” he drawled, infusing the words with condescension. “Are you a collector, Moore?”

​

“No, a music fan.” The rueful note in his deep, smooth voice was charming.

​

“So what are your impressions of the show?” she asked, smiling to make up for Jerald’s rudeness. She’d invited him to the show because he was mageborn, allowing freer conversation than a Mundane companion would. The way he’d behaved tonight, though…he and she weren’t as compatible as they’d initially seemed.

​

“I’m intrigued,” Moore replied. “The press release we received said you take your inspiration from different types of music.”

​

Jerald’s hold tightened. “The cards by the tapestries say that.”

​

“I noticed.” Moore maintained his amiable tone.

 

At least one of the men wasn’t being an ass. Tonight’s territorial act from Jerald was new. And unwelcome.

 

Before Caro could try to smooth over his curtness, Moore continued, still in an easy, relaxed voice, “Ms. Dare, I particularly like one that isn’t for sale, the one called Spring. The color gradations are subtle and engaging, and the song that inspired the work, The Cypress Knees’ ‘Georgia Morning,’ is a favorite of mine.”

​

“A lot of people like it. That’s why it’s a hit on the indie charts,” Jerald muttered.

​

Ignoring him, she responded, “Make it Caro, please.”

 

“Thanks. I’m Rick to my friends. How did that song inspire the work?”

​

The warmth in his voice wrapped around her like a buffer against Jerald’s mood. Caro smiled at Moore. “‘Georgia Morning’ is a family favorite.”

​

Griffin especially liked it. She’d played it whenever she worked on the Spring tapestry. Every color she’d chosen for that particular piece, every bobbin of thread she’d wound, had been with him in mind. Thoughts of him were so woven through it that she couldn’t bear to part with it.

​

“There’s a lot to be said for family favorites,” Moore observed.

​

Jerald cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt here, but—”

​

“Then don’t.” Caro kept her smile in place despite the urge to drive her stiletto heel into Jerald’s toes. Maybe Moore was only being polite with his compliments, but he sounded sincere. “Jerald, would you mind getting me a glass of champagne?”

​

He stiffened. His vibe said he wasn’t happy, but he said, “Sure, doll.” His possessive kiss on her cheek as he left made her want to roll her eyes.

​

“I’m here to do a piece for Georgia Arts Monthly, as Belinda said,” Moore told her. “I’m to give my impressions of the show as part of a feature about this evening. I would love to talk to you about your work when it’s convenient.”

​

“Really?” Delight bloomed in her heart, fast and deep, and her cheeks heated.

​

Moore’s figure in her magical awareness nodded, then tensed, as though he realized she couldn’t see any detail in his reaction. “Yes,” he said. “This is truly amazing, and the response you’re getting shows that there would be interest.” 

​

Wow…but…reporters tended to pry at doors best left closed. Caro swallowed a sigh.

​

“I’m sorry, but I don’t give interviews.” With some regret, because she liked him and she did want her work to make a splash, she cooled her voice. “It’s family policy.”

​

“I see.” Although Moore still sounded relaxed, his voice carried a tinge of disappointment. “If you change your mind, I’d be glad to send you the questions by email. Then we could discuss them or you could simply send me the answers.”

​

He was being reasonable, and she needed publicity. But…the family had a no interviews rule for a reason.

“I’ll leave my card with Belinda in case you change your mind,” he said.

​

Before she could refuse again, he added, “I’m sure there are others who would like to talk to you, so I’ll move along. It was nice meeting you, Caro.”

​

His shape and his footsteps receded into the swirl of life energy in the gallery. Too bad. He’d seemed like a nice guy.

 

But she couldn’t let down her guard, even for the sake of her career. Too many people wanted to write sordid stories about Griffin or his family. Because he was a painter, even Mundane publications like Peachtree Arts Bulletin had glommed onto her “missing” brother, supposedly homeless and mentally ill.

Caro swallowed a sigh. Best to guard her privacy and steer clear of any reporters. Even part-time ones. And especially charming ones. They always wanted something.

​

* * *

​

Wandering the gallery, Rick listened to the buzz of admiring voices under the music. But there was Burton McCree, the main critic for Macon Arts Weekly, and he was scowling. Not good. Really not good. 

​

How could he not like images beautifully woven in silk and wool that gleamed with vibrant energy?

​

Rick paused by one called Firebird, based on the classical Stravinsky. But the dark landscape, the storm clouds, and the nimbus of light around a launching bird in scarlet, gold, and tiny hints of green—how did a blind woman, even a mageborn one, know you could sometimes see green in a fire?—those were all hers. They took his breath away. 

​

The bird had an exuberance, a joy, even the dark background couldn’t stifle. That same energy ran through all these hangings. The woman was brilliant.

​

Not only brilliant but beautiful.

​

Rick glanced at Caro again. A lush fall of black hair framed her fair complexion. Those classical, elegant features like her mom’s, combined with her dad’s gray eyes, presented a pleasant picture but an unremarkable one. The real appeal came from the sparkle, the life, in her face. He’d stupidly failed to realize a blind woman’s face could be so animated.

 

His mistake.

​

So of course there was a boyfriend. Not that it mattered. He’d come to get a story, not lose his head over a beautiful woman, even one he wanted to know better.

​

Too bad his palm tingled faintly with the memory of her touch. Had he imagined that hint of color in her cheeks when she’d shaken hands with him?

​

A middle-aged couple stopped to speak to her. Layton leaned in, then bulled into the conversation. Rick frowned. What the hell was such a gifted woman doing with such a jackass? 

 

Well, no accounting for taste. Her refusal to give him an interview indicated a distrust of journalism that meant he would strike out with her even if she wasn’t seeing someone. It also pretty much torpedoed his story. He had no pretensions to being an art critic.

 

Still, this show deserved promotion. Belinda would probably give him some quotes, and maybe that would suffice. He would call her tomorrow when she wasn’t so busy. For now, he would take one last look at everything and say good night to Caroline Dare. If he made a good enough impression, maybe that and Belinda vouching for him would get him the interview.

If not, well, some story ideas just didn’t work out.

 

* * *

“Caro, darling,” her mom said, the approaching sound of her voice warm, “guess who your dad and I found wandering the foyer!”

​

Familiar magic surrounded the newcomer. Caro’s smile broadened, genuinely this time. She set her champagne on the table behind her, next to her eight-inch, tubular laser cane. “Will! I didn’t think you could make it.”

​

“Wouldn’t have missed it.”

 

Beard scruff brushed her cheek as her brother of the heart gave her a quick hug. Caro had known Will Davis all her life, so of course she’d touched his face. As a result, she could picture the boyish cast it assumed when he grinned and the streaky, blond-and-brown hair that perpetually hung just past his jaw.

 

But she knew his eyes were pale blue only because her mom had shown her the exact color with paint. Being able to sense color through touch gave her a clearer picture of the world than she would’ve had otherwise, but it had its limits.

​

Pitching his voice for her ears only, he said softly, “Hey there, Shrimp.”

​

The quick embrace let her sense, as he must’ve intended, that the fine fabric under her hands was dark blue with lapels—a suit jacket—with a white shirt and a bright blue, paisley tie under it.

​

Caro grinned. “Nice suit. Too bad you accessorized with that feeble excuse for a beard.” Will saw regular shaving as a waste of time that could be better spent on video games.

​

“Hey, you got me all dressed up. Don’t complain.”

​

“Good point.” Geek. She added his boyhood nickname with affectionate warmth in her heart but kept it to herself.

​

Although Will took as much pride in his knowledge of obscure facts and his nerdy interests as he did in his two doctoral degrees and his black belt, Jerald and others in earshot might not understand if Caro teased him with that label.

​

“Will, this is Jerald Layton. Jerald, Will Davis.”

​

“Good to meet you.” Jerald spoke politely, but he sounded bored.

  

The faint swish of fabric and the soft pat of palms meeting told Caro the two men shook hands. Thank goodness Jerald knew Will was an old friend and didn’t see him, too, as competition.

 

Her father asked, “Any news at work, Will?”

​

As the assistant loremaster at the southeastern Collegium, known to its Mundane neighbors as the Georgia Institute for Paranormal Research, Will would hear anything that mattered. Like, oh, any leads the mages might have for finding and arresting Griffin.

​

“That’s man code for hot gossip.” Caro’s mom spoke cheerfully, but the same concern had to be in her mind, too.

​

“There’s been some ghoul activity on the outskirts of Macon,” Will replied softly, so his voice didn’t carry beyond their little group. The Burning Times, the witch hunts that had swept Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, proved it was far better that Mundanes not know about the mageborn among them.

 

“Enough that Shire Reeve Banning is stationing a detachment here,” he added. “If you’re out at night, don’t go alone, and be sure your doors are locked.”

​

“Right,” Caro’s dad said.

​

Will’s news sent a ripple of dismay through the group. Ghouls were dark magic users, the mages’ deadly enemies. Their retractable talons could inject poisonous venom or siphon life energy or magic. Unable to eat anything but fresh kill or breed among themselves, they preyed on mages and Mundanes for breeding stock and sometimes for food.

 

“Nothing else is worth mentioning,” Will replied in a light tone that had to be deliberate, probably to lift the pall his news had dropped over the group. “Except, y’know, I’m wearing this suit.”

​

As her dad chuckled, Caro realized there was no feminine silhouette hovering at Will’s side. She raised her eyebrows. “Will, you haven’t introduced us to your date.”

​

“I didn’t bring one.”

​

Jerald excused himself to speak to a client. Caro’s magic didn’t pick up a sense of anyone nearby, but she lowered her voice anyway. “What, no flavor of the week?”

​

“Last week’s flavor is a tough act to follow. I’m resting my palate.”

​

“Oh, Will.” Fond exasperation rang in Lara Dare’s voice. “Seriously. You’re almost twenty-nine years old. Isn’t it time you thought about settling on someone, at least for a while?”

​

“I have.” Cheerfully, Will added, “I’m having tutti-frutti, a little of this, a little of that.”

​

As everyone groaned, he gave Caro’s shoulders a quick, affectionate squeeze. “Besides,” he continued, “the best flavor is off limits. Around the time Caro turned thirteen, Griff assured me he’d break both my arms if he ever caught me looking her way.”

​

Calling out the elephant in the room was so typically Will. “I wish he could be here,” Caro murmured.

​

“Me, too, Shrimp. Me, too.” His body tensed, and Caro caught an odd vibe, as though he might say something else. But he didn’t. The silence turned awkward.

​

“Lara, darling, champagne?” her dad asked. “Will, Caro?”

​

“Yes, sir,” Will replied, “thanks.”

​

“I’m good,” Caro told him.

​

Her mom said, “I’ll come with you.”

​

As their footsteps moved away, Will sighed. “Guess I’ll need surgery now to remove my foot from my mouth.”

​

“No.” Caro shifted so their shoulders touched. “We’re all thinking about him. It’s best to admit it.”

​

“Maybe.” Will still seemed tense. “About this ghoul activity, Shrimp—I know you and Griff worked on your fighting skills, and I assume you’ve been keeping up. But if you need a refresher, I’d be happy to help.”

​

Caro shook her head. “Thanks, but my friend Mindy and I work out every week.” Most mages went through their entire lives without encountering a ghoul, but her family believed in always preparing for the worst. “My ability to sense people’s bodies is even sharper when I spar, maybe from adrenaline.”

​

“That’s good,” Will said. “Glad you’re keeping up your skills.” He paused. “Who’s this Layton guy? Are you aware he looks down that formidable nose at pretty much everyone? Except the client he went to buttonhole?”

​

“It’s not serious.” Caro spoke flatly to close the subject.

 

“Glad to hear it,” Will muttered.

​

He was one of the few people she could talk to about her brother, and she had him to herself. That might not last long.

​

Caro blew out a shaky breath. “Sometimes I’m afraid he’s dead. It’s been three years, and no word.” No explanation, which they all longed for. He must’ve had a good reason for accusing the Chief Counselor of the Collegium, the head of mage government in the southeast, of being a ghoul ally, then blowing him away. In the ensuing fight, four deputy shire reeves had died. 

 

Why? The question haunted her. The accepted version said Griffin had killed them, but she couldn’t believe that. He had too strong a sense of duty to his subordinates.

​

“He’d be a tough guy to kill,” Will responded.

​

“True.” Yet he continued to give off that strange vibe. “Is there something wrong? Something you’re afraid to say?”

​

“If the Collegium killed him, they’d trumpet the news,” he reminded her, shifting slightly so they were no longer in direct contact. “Ditto for the ghouls.”

​

“I’m sure they would.” As shire reeve, Griffin had dedicated himself to eliminating ghouls and their nests.

​

“Ergo, he’s safe.” The brush of Will’s sleeve against her arm signaled a shrug.

​

“That’s a comforting thought.” If only she could know that for sure.