Sizzle and Burn

him. “Here. Drink some of this.”
    To please her, he downed half the contents of the cup in a single swallow. The slightly astringent, herbal flavors were not unpleasant but he didn’t think they were going to have any effect on the visions. There was only one thing that could distract him from the death scene and that was the one thing that was not available to him tonight.
    Raine picked up the deck of cards and started to deal. He made a valiant effort to concentrate but he knew it was a waste of time. His brain insisted on jumping wildly from images of oncoming death to a raging need to affirm life in the most primitive way possible.
    “I appreciate the effort but it’s not going to work.”
    “It’s going to be one of those nights, isn’t it?” she asked. “One of the bad ones.”
    “I’m used to it. Don’t worry about me.”
    “I’m not feeling very sleepy, myself. Watching that man try to kill you left my nerves on edge, to put it mildly. And then, seeing his body in the street—”
    His hand stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth. “How did you know that the guy was coming after me?”
    “I’m not sure. He passed very close behind the booth where I was sitting. I was just suddenly aware of him. And not in a good way. It was like looking over your shoulder and seeing a tiger waiting to pounce.”
    He nodded. “That happens with hunters when they’re running hot. The energy they put out is predatory. Most people can sense it, even if they aren’t consciously aware of it. Another sensitive like yourself wouldn’t have any trouble at all picking up the vibes.”
    “You’re sure that the visions you picked up tonight were connected to Lawrence Quinn’s death?” Raine asked quietly.
    “Yes.”
    “And you’re also sure that the killer was Ski Mask?”
    “Can’t be absolutely certain, but it seems logical. The last thing Quinn saw was a face that his panic-stricken brain interpreted as a death’s head. Two black holes for eyes. I’m betting it was really a ski mask.”
    “Fallon Jones still thinks I’m the key to this thing,” she said.
    He drank a little more of the tea. “Unfortunately, I agree with him.”
    “But it’s been a month since Aunt Vella died. No one has made any move to contact me.”
    “Fallon thinks they’ve been sitting back, watching you.”
    “Watching me do what?” she asked, bewildered.
    “Let’s think about this,” he said. “What’s the main thing you’ve been doing in the past month?”
    “You mean, aside from running my business?”
    “Yes.”
    “Settling my aunt’s estate. It’s amazing how much paperwork there is associated with death.”
    “Right.”
    “So?”
    “So, it all comes back to Vella Tallentyre,” he said.

Thirty-six
    T he dream was a bad one.
…A death’s head coming at him out of the darkness, black holes where the eyes should have been. He was paralyzed, fingers clutching the corner of the steel garbage container. He desperately wanted to turn and run but he was unable to move. There was no point trying to flee. The terrifying figure would run him down…
…The death’s head morphed into Jenna’s beautiful face. She smiled at him and held out her hands.
“I was perfect for you. What more could you want in a woman?”
    He came awake, heart pounding. Sweat dampened his T-shirt. He sat up abruptly, swinging his feet to the floor, and breathed hard.
    Just a dream, you idiot. Get over it. You can handle this. You’ve done it before. What are you complaining about? You didn’t expect to get any sleep at all tonight, anyway.
    He glanced at the clock. Two forty-five. He had gotten a whole hour and a half of rest. The trouble was, he felt worse now, more wired than if he had just stayed awake.
    The herbal tisane had worked but not for long. He really hated the damn dreams.
    A pale, ghostly figure materialized in the doorway.
    “Zack?”
    He could deal with the sight of her standing there in the opening, looking ethereal and untouchable as hell, just pretend it was another vision, an antidote to the images of death. But the sound of her voice was too much for his already wired senses.
    “I’m all right,” he said, aware of the harshness in his own words. “Go back to bed.”
    “I heard you through the wall. You called out.”
    “Just the usual junk dreams.”
    “Zack—”
    “I don’t want to play cards, damn it. Go back to bed. Now.”
    Great. He was snapping at her like a dog with a sore paw.
    She walked