Running Hot

on the other side. Cautiously she opened the door and checked the corridor. Empty.
    She hurried up the next flight and again paused at the hall door. She sensed the music pulsing gently, insistently, even though it was almost inaudible.
    She opened the door and moved out into the corridor just in time to see the singing housekeeper vanish into a room at the far end of the hall. The woman, her aura flaring hotly, left her cart outside. She did not follow the hotel’s usual routine of leaving the door open, however. Instead she closed it firmly behind her.
    Grace glanced at the number on the door across from where she stood and did the math. More adrenaline splashed through her. If she had counted correctly, the housekeeper had just vanished into 604, Eubanks’s suite.
    Mr. Jones, what are the odds?
    Whatever was going on here, it was important. She was very sure of that. The question was what to do next. Luther would know but he was not around. A good field agent had to be able to make independent decisions.
    It would be no big deal to walk past the room the singing housekeeper had just entered and check the number to make absolutely sure that it was 604. It would not be good for her future as a J&J specialist if she screwed up on something that important.
    She started down the hall in what she hoped looked like a leisurely manner, card key in hand, as though she were on her way to her own room. There were no other guests about.
    Another housekeeper, pushing a heavily loaded cart, appeared at the far end of the corridor. She paused in front of a room and rapped lightly.
    “Housekeeping,” she called.
    That was something else the operatic maid had failed to do, Grace recalled. The woman had entered the room without knocking and without announcing her presence, as if she knew full well that the occupants were not inside.
    Grace reached the singing maid’s cart. She looked at the closed door: 604.
    She kept going, unsure what her next move should be. It seemed logical, however, that a sharp, independent-thinking J&J agent would keep an eye on the singing housekeeper and follow her after she left Eubanks’s suite. This was a surveillance mission, after all.
    It was also imperative to notify Luther that a woman with a high-level psychic talent who may or may not have been a member of the hotel staff had just entered the room of one of the Nightshade members.
    She took out her phone and entered a quick text message. Talent entered E’s rm. Will watch.
    She dropped the phone back into her purse and looked around for someplace to conceal herself while she waited for the singer to reappear. All she could see were two long rows of doors stretching out ahead of her. The hall ended where it intersected with another corridor. She had two choices, either go back the way she had come and hide in the stairwell or go around the corner at the far end and wait for the door to 604 to open.
    She opted for the stairwell. It was closer. She hurried back past Eubanks’s suite and was almost at the door when she sensed movement behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder and saw the second housekeeper striding purposefully toward 604.
    She switched to her other senses and studied the woman’s aura. It was average for a nonsensitive but it was clear the housekeeper was annoyed. The sight of the other cart in the hall bothered her for some reason, perhaps because this was her territory.
    Grace was suddenly very certain that it would not be a good idea for the housekeeper to confront the woman who had just disappeared into 604.
    Impulsively she started back toward the suite but the housekeeper was already knocking briskly. Without waiting for a response, the maid jammed her master key into the lock and pushed open the door. She stared into the room, her body tense, her aura registering a growing unease.
    “Who are you?” she demanded. “This is my floor and I didn’t ask for any extra help today. You must be new.”
    The singing started up inside the room, intense and so darkly compelling that Grace felt as if she were in danger of being extinguished by the crushing weight of impending doom. Power and violence conveyed in a coloratura soprano’s pure, utterly mesmerizing voice poured out into the hall.
    The second housekeeper’s aura pulsed with terror. The woman retreated a step, turning slightly, as though preparing to run. But she went statue-still instead. Then, as though drawn by invisible chains, she started toward the