Running Hot

fighting each step, he crossed a small footbridge over an ink-colored koi pond. Something splashed in the dark waters. Now he could see the graceful silhouette of the moonlit wedding chapel. The singing came from within.
    He went up the steps and through the open door. The structure was not illuminated but there was enough silvery light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows to allow him to see the figure standing at the front of the room. The singer was dressed in a long white spa robe, her features shadowed by the hood drawn up over her head. She looked like some ethereal being from another dimension.
    Fascinated, he moved down the aisle, unable to resist the compulsion of the music. The singer opened her arms to him. Her voice rose higher, becoming a splashing crystal fountain of perfect and somehow terrifying notes.
    The pain began then, alternately searing and then freezing his senses. It spread swiftly. The sudden headache was excruciating.
    He finally understood that the singer was killing him. Someone had arranged his murder.
    This could not be happening, not to him. He was destined for power and greatness. He had killed three women to get this far.
    He fell, drowning in darkness. A horrifying thought came to him. Was the woman who was killing him with her music the ghost of one of the three he had murdered?
    The crystalline notes followed him into the depths.
    And then there was nothing.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    Luther opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through palm fronds, the incredibly satisfying sensation of Grace curled around him, and the annoying trill of his phone. The sunshine and the phone were standard issue when it came to mornings. The feeling of Grace cuddled next to him was anything but. Only one night of having her here in his bed and he was already addicted.
    Reluctantly he eased away from Grace’s soft warmth, sat up on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. He got a little jolt of adrenaline when he saw the familiar code.
    “What have you got, Fallon?”
    “Eubanks is dead,” Fallon said. The anticipation of the hunter rumbled through his bearlike voice. “His body was discovered in the wedding chapel by a member of the hotel janitorial staff a few hours ago. Looks like he died around midnight last night. The authorities are calling it a stroke. No signs of violence.”
    “The Siren made her kill.”
    “That she did. Now we get to sit back and watch. Can’t wait to see who takes Eubanks’s place. When we find out, we may know who commissioned the murder.”
    “What about the Siren?”
    “She fulfilled her contract. If she’s a real pro, as I suspect, she’ll probably just disappear.”
    “But you’re looking for her, right?”
    “Sure.” Fallon paused. “Well, Sweetwater’s looking for her, which is even better.”
    “This isn’t Sweetwater’s responsibility. She’s a sensitive. That makes her a J&J job, your job.”
    “Malone, I gotta tell you that at the moment she is not high on my to-do list.” Fallon’s voice was shaded with an uncharacteristic anger. He frequently got impatient and was often annoyed but he rarely succumbed to strong emotion like this. “I’ve got too many other things going on. As long as she sticks to killing Nightshade people, I’ve got no beef with her.”
    “She tried to murder Grace and an innocent bystander.”
    “From the way Grace described things, the incident sounds like it may have been an accident.”
    “How the hell can you call attempted murder an accident?”
    “Okay, okay, not exactly an accident,” Fallon muttered. “More along the lines of a wrong-place, wrong-time thing. What I’m trying to say is that there’s no sign that she was after Grace or the housekeeper. They interrupted her.”
    “So now it’s Grace’s and the housekeeper’s fault that they almost got killed?”
    “Damn it, stop putting words in my mouth,” Fallon growled. “Grace said the Siren was in heavy disguise. That means that, as far as the singer knows, there’s no way Grace can identify her. Ergo, she has no reason to go after her. Get the picture?”
    “You and I both know that Grace can identify her aura.”
    “Only if the two of them come face-to-face again,” Fallon shot back. “And what are the odds of that?”
    “How the hell should I know?”
    “Look, the Siren has no way of knowing Grace’s identity, let alone her whereabouts or that she’s an aura reader. Take it from me, Grace is not in danger. As for the