"Hello, Stan," she said, pushing back her chair and standing.

  "Hey, Rachel. Welcome back from, uh…"

  "San Diego. The weather was beautiful." She looked at me more closely. "What's the matter, Stan? What happened?"

  "What makes you think anything special happened? I'm a cop – stuff happens around me all the time."

  "No, this is personal to you. Your aura's usually a strong turquoise, but there's some gray in it tonight. It's pulsing, which means a reaction to something recent."

  She sat down again. "I'm not trying to pry. If it's something you'd rather not talk about, that's up to you. But you can't hide your emotional state from me."

  Auras. Jeez. I sat down in one of her visitor's chairs. "I had a little trouble earlier tonight, is all. Some goblins tried to kill me."

  "My goddess, Stan! Are you all right? Physically, I mean."

  "They never laid a glove on me – or a knife, which is what they had in mind."

  Her brow furrowed. "Goblins aren't usually aggressive, unless attacked. I assume you weren't the one doing the attacking."

  "Not six of them, I wasn't. But you'd be surprised how aggressive goblins can get when they're pumped full of meth."

  "Meth." She tilted her chair back and studied me. "There was a problem with some meth-addicted goblins a couple of years ago, wasn't there? You asked me for a potion that would make them compliant."

  "Yup. Worked like a charm, too, if you'll pardon the expression."

  She looked at me some more. "That was the night Paul DiNapoli died."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You're still blaming yourself for that, aren't you?"

  "Who says I'm blaming myself?" I said that maybe a little louder than I'd intended.

  "You did. Just now. But it was already apparent."

  "Rachel, no offense, OK? But I didn't come here for psychotherapy, or whatever witches call it."

  She nodded calmly. "All right, Stan."

  "I'm actually here to warn you."

  "Warn me? About what?"

  "Somebody in the area has been abducting and burning witches," I said.

  "Yes, I know. The first one happened before I left. I read about the other one while I was away."

  "You checked out the Time-Tribune's online edition?"

  "No, the news was posted to a discussion board that I follow," she said.

  "Witches have discussion boards?"

  "Why not? Everyone else seems to. Sometimes technology is better than magic. But only sometimes."

  "Did you… know either of the victims?"

  A deep sigh escaped her. "Not personally, although I'm friends with the sister of one." She moved a small paperweight from one part of her desk to another. "And here we thought the burning times were over."

  "This isn't the state doing it this, time, Rachel. Or the Catholic Church. It's some lunatic, or a group of them."

  "I doubt that made the flames any less painful for the victims, but I take your point. If you don't mind me asking about police business – are you close to catching whoever's responsible?"

  "It's not that I mind telling you," I said. "But the answer is kind of complicated, and I've got to get back upstairs. The short answer is, we don't know who's been doing the actual murders, but we may be getting a handle on why it was done. And knowing why brings us one step closer to who."

  "I understand – I think. And I appreciate your candor."

  "So, if you already heard about the burnings, you know enough to take precautions until we nail these bastards."

  "Yes, I've got a spell prepared to defend myself. I can invoke it instantly by using a single word of power."

  "If you have to use it," I said, "try not to kill the perp. I need him alive and talking."

  "I can't kill anyone, Stan. White magic, remember?"

  "Just checking." I stood up. "Well, thanks for your time. Good to see you again."

  "Stan, before you go…"

  "What?"

  "Come here a second, will you?"

  "Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"

  "You should live so long." When I stood in front of her desk she said, "Let me see your right hand."

  I held it out to her, saying, "You haven't added palmistry to your talents, have you?"

  "That stuff's bunk. Turn your hand over."

  She gently held my hand with her left, and with her right index finger she began to trace some kind of pattern on my palm.

  "That kinda tickles," I said.

  "Sssh." She bent over my palm and said a few words in a language I didn't recognize. Then she looked up at me. "Stan, do you remember that night in the liquor store? The night Paul died?"

  "Damn right I do." My throat felt tight as I spoke.

  "Good." She said a few more words in that unfamiliar language. "Now close your hand and squeeze it. Tightly! Tight as you can!"

  I did what she asked, feeling foolish.

  And then something loosened deep in my chest, like untying a knot I never knew I had in there. I felt like I could take a full breath for the first time in – well, in a year and a half.

  Rachel let go of my hand and sat back. "Thanks for indulging me, Stan."

  I stared at her. "What did you just do?"

  She gave me an enigmatic smile. "Nothing of consequence. Just helped you relax a little, that's all."