In Death 05 - Ceremony in Death

Christ. Looks like the party's already under way."
    "Try not to sneer." Roarke patted her knee. "It would offend our hosts."
    "I'm not going to sneer." She already was. "I want impressions. Not just of Forte, of everybody. And if you happen to recognize a face, let me know." She took a small device out of her bag, slipped it into her pocket.
    "Micro recorder?" Roarke clucked his tongue. "I believe that's illegal. Not to mention rude."
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    "And unnecessary," he added. He turned his wrist, tapped a tiny button on the side of his watch. "This one is much more efficient. I should know. I manufacture both brands." He smiled as the car stopped at the edge of a small clearing. "I believe we've arrived."
    Eve spotted Isis first. She was impossible to miss. The sheer, white robe she wore seemed to glow out of the dark like moonlight. Her hair was left long and loose, flowing over her shoulders. A gold band studded with colored stones circled her brow. Her long, narrow feet were bare.
    "Blessed be," she said and disconcerted Eve by kissing both her cheeks. She greeted Roarke the same way, then turned back to Eve. "You're injured." Before Eve could respond, she lay fingers against the scratches. "Poison."
    "Poison?'' Eve had visions of vicious nails dipped into a slow-acting brew that crept through the bloodstream.
    "Not of the physical but of the spiritual kind. I feel Selina here." Her eyes stayed on Eve's as she lowered her hand to Eve's shoulder. "This won't do. Mirium, please welcome our other guests." She spoke to a small, dark-skinned woman as Feeney's rattletrap of a car bumped up the road. "Chas will see to your wound."
    "It's fine. I'll see an MT in the morning."
    "I don't think that will be necessary. Please come this way. It's unhealthy to have even this much of her here."
    She led the way around the clearing. Eve could see a wide circle formed by a ring of white candles. People stood outside it chatting, she mused, as they might at a midtown cocktail party. Dress varied. Robes, suits, long and short skirts.
    Twenty in all, by her count, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty with a mixture of race and gender. There seemed no specific type. Coolers were stacked nearby, which, she supposed, explained why several members were sipping drinks. Conversation was muted, punctuated by the occasional laugh.
    Chas turned from a folding table as they approached. He wore a simple blue unisuit and soft shoes in the same tone. He smiled, noting Eve's suspicious scan of the table.
    "Witch's tools," he told her.
    Red cords, a white-handled knife. An athame, she thought. She saw more candles, a small brass gong, a whip, a gleaming silver sword, colored bottles, bowls, and cups.
    "Interesting."
    "It's an old ritual, requiring old tools. But you're hurt." He took a step toward her, his hand lifting, then pausing when she aimed a cool, warning look. "I beg your pardon. It looks painful."
    "Chas is a healer." Isis curved her lips in challenge. "Consider this a demonstration. After all, you did come to observe, didn't you? And your mate wears protection."
    And so, Eve thought, feeling the comfortable weight of her weapon, did she.
    "Okay, demonstrate." She tilted her head, inviting Chas to examine the scratches.
    His fingers were surprisingly cool, surprisingly soothing as they played over her abraded skin. She kept her eyes on his, watched them focus, then flicker. "You're fortunate," he murmured. "The result didn't equal the intent. Will you relax your mind?"
    His gaze lifted from his hand, met hers. "The mind and body are one," he said quietly in that lovely voice. "One guides the other, one heals the other. Let me ease this."
    She thought she felt warmth move through her, from the point where his fingers lay, into her head, down through her body, until a drowsiness seeped through. She jerked herself alert, saw him smile quietly. "I won't hurt you."
    He turned, picked up an amber bottle, uncorked the stopper and dabbed clear, floral-scented liquid on his hands.
    "This is a balm, an old recipe with modern additions." He spread it gently, his fingers following the path Selina's nails had raked. "It will heal clean, and there will be no more discomfort."
    "You know your chemicals, don't you?"
    "This is an herbal base." He took a cloth from his pocket, wiped his fingers. "But yes, I do."
    "I'd like to talk to you about that." She waited a beat, her eyes keen. "And about your father."
    She saw the