Running Hot

fill her lungs. But the oxygen suddenly flooding her system fueled her will to live. She had not survived the death of her mother, the foster care system, the streets and Martin Crocker only to die at the hands of a killer diva.
    She forced herself to concentrate. There were signs of definite instability in the pulses of power that flashed and sparked in the singer’s aura. The woman was not only a little crazy, she was on the verge of flying into an inchoate rage. Grace’s resistance was infuriating her.
    Push her a little harder, Grace thought. You’re going to die here in this hallway if you don’t.
    Her intensified resistance had an immediate effect. The singer’s aura darkened and flashed with unstable rage. She was losing her emotional control. Surely that would impact her vocal control, Grace thought. She had read somewhere that professional opera singers claim it is fatal to feel too much emotion when they sing. The logic was obvious. It was difficult if not impossible to maintain perfect control over your voice when your chest and throat were tightened by rage or tears, or fear.
    It dawned on Grace that she had the same problem. If she did not pull herself back from the brink of panic, she would lose her own control. She needed to think of something other than impending death.
    Luther.
    There was power in a name if the person attached to the name had a strong connection to you. The strength she drew from Luther’s name told her just how important he was to her.
    The singer screamed. There was no other word for it but the sound was no normal shriek of fear. It was an intense pulse of raw rage. The incredibly high-pitched note was all wrong.
    Grace discovered that she could move again. Instinctively she jammed her fingers into her ears. The music and the pain receded slightly.
    And then another sound echoed down the hallway: the distinct chime of the elevator bell.
    The singer must have heard it, too, and understood that other people were about to appear. Chaos sparked across her aura. Teetering on the edge of insane fury, she launched herself at Grace, fingers hooked like claws.
    Grace scrambled out of her path, putting the cart between them. She groped for something to use as a weapon. Her fingers closed around a feather duster.
    The singer tried to adjust her trajectory but she stumbled over the unconscious housekeeper and went down, sprawling on the carpet. Grace shoved the cart toward her but it did not roll far enough.
    The singer staggered to her feet. Her mouth opened. Her throat worked. But the only sound that emerged was a choked gasp.
    She glanced back once toward the elevator lobby. The doors started to open. Logic or maybe her own survival instincts overrode her rage. She fled, running straight past Grace, and vanished around the corner.
    Grace waited, clutching the duster, but there was no more singing.
    She took a deep breath and started toward the fallen housekeeper, who was just beginning to stir. Something crunched under her foot. She looked down and saw sparkling shards of glass scattered across the carpet. One of the clean drinking glasses that had been sitting on top of the cart had shattered.
    It dawned on her that the door to suite 604 was still open. She closed it. Something told her that Fallon would want to keep this incident quiet if at all possible.
    She crouched beside the dazed woman.
    “Are you all right?” she asked gently.
    “Yes, I think so.” The housekeeper gave her a blank look. “Did I just faint?”
    “Yes. Don’t try to get up. There’s a house phone down by the elevators. I’ll call your supervisor.”
    “I’m okay, really. Just a little tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”
    “It certainly has.”
    The housekeeper would be all right. Her aura had returned to normal. Automatically Grace reached out to pat her in a reassuring fashion. At the last instant she remembered how her palm had burned when she had pulled the woman away from the doorway. The pain was gone but she dared not touch the housekeeper. It would take days or even weeks to recover.
    Back to square one.
    “Damn,” she whispered. “Damn, damn, damn.”
    She pushed herself to her feet and went down the hall to the phone.

TWENTY-THREE
    She was huddled on the sofa, the computer open on the coffee table in front of her, when Luther arrived. He stalked into the suite looking like the Lord of the Underworld—a very pissed-off Lord. He started toward her, using his cane to emphasize