Sleep was near impossible. Joe startled at the slightest movement, the slightest noise, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the corpse, the blood, the doll…

Finally, he gave up. Early dawn lit the room; the painting of Joan of Arc over the couch glowed in a patch of it. Joshua sprawled on the couch; Frank was wrapped in a sleeping bag near the door. Kris wasn't in the room, her sleeping bag rolled up against the wall, but Joe felt a slight breeze of morning air; the gallery doors were open.

Everything could wait until he'd had a shower.

A short while later, barefoot with his hair damp, Joe wandered back through the living room to the kitchen. Coffee had been made; Joe snagged a mug from the rack over the sink, helped himself, stepped out onto the gallery. Kris sat there, nursing a cup of tea with her feet propped up on the rail. A white box of square puffy donuts topped with powdered sugar was on the iron-work table next to her.

Kris nodded at the chairs. "Pull up. Grab a beignet. And be warned, Josh'll come out here calling me a heathen because I'm eating them with tea, and not coffee."

"Cafe au lait, and you've got enough problems," Joshua said, coming into the doorway. He was in purple sweatpants and an oversized Star Wars t-shirt; he eyed Joe's mug. "You need more milk in that."

"Everyone's a critic," Joe said.

"Two heathens." Joshua stumbled towards the bathroom.

Joe snagged a beignet and bit into it cautiously. The light, airy pastry itself wasn't that sweet, but the snowstorm of powdered sugar on top more than made up for that. The coffee had a mellow, smoky undertone to it, pleasant and warm. After last night, sitting in bright sunshine with mug of good coffee and the box of beignets on the gallery table between them was wonderfully commonplace. The horror seemed far away; real life was here, now, and the silence was comfortable, the sun warm, Bourbon Street below quiet.

There were voices in the kitchen; Joe glanced back. Joshua was expounding on cafe noir, cafe au lait, and hot milk, before shoving a mug into Frank's hands.

"Three heathens," Joshua said, throwing up his hands. "Why I even bother…"

Smiling, Frank came out, pulled up a chair, leaned back with his eyes closed as Joshua went on. "He'll wind down," Kris said. "Eventually."

"…next you'll be telling me you use sugar in your coffee and not good molasses…"

"We'll get our revenge if you ever come back to Bayport," Frank said.

"Don't say that," Kris said. "Josh'll bring Godzilla. I don't want to be in the same state if Godz meets your aunt."

"State, hell, try planet." A steaming mug of cafe au lait in his hands, Joshua came out to the gallery. "Kris's told me stories about that worthy, thank you."

Frank and Joe exchanged grins. "Okay, now you tell us one. How did you do that?" Frank said, to Joshua. "The fire, I mean?"

"Frank, come on," Kris said.

Joshua shrugged. "Hydrogen. Methane. Both are inflammable, and they're part of the air. Bit more than usual here, because of the bayou."

"Stop pulling my leg. There's nowhere near enough. The concentrations are too low. You need at least —"

"Wizard," Joe said; it brought Frank up short.

"No, no," Joshua said. "That's exactly how he should be thinking, chè. If thunder cracks, look for the storm, not a wizard duel. That's why I was so wiped after — I had to pull enough into that spot to make the concentration."

"It follows rules, Frank," Kris said. "There's science behind it. But it is easy to fake." She snagged another beignet. "Remember Stacy?"

Both brothers nodded. "Circle Hills," Joe said. "That house."

"'That house' was a haunted house for the local VFW," Kris said.

"A-ha! Knew it!" Frank grinned at his brother. "So much for that 'ghost' you were going on about."

"Don't get cocky," Joshua said.

"Didn't you wonder why the place was in such good repair, Joe?" Kris said. "After all the 'hundreds of years' Stacy was claiming? The story she gave us was word for word from the VFW's tourist pamphlet."

"But Stacy knew things," Joe said. "Even her mother said she was always saying stuff that came true, like that wreck."

"Because Stacy caused them," Kris said. "The wreck? The brake lines had been sliced open, and she'd been spotted near the car earlier. Other things she 'saw' had the same story."

"Dear God," Frank breathed, running a hand through his hair. "I knew she was faking, but I didn't think…god."

Kris looked away. "To be absolutely fair, that doctor put her up to it. But…still." Then Kris met Frank's gaze. "But the ghost was real."

Frank hesitated, looked from her to Joe and back.

"I sense an apology coming," Joe said, grinning; Frank had ragged him for weeks after Circle Hills. Joe remembered the ghost too clearly: him and Kris heading down into the basement, movement skittering in the shadows — then something had leapt for them, followed by a bright, sparking crack —

But then Joe's grin faded; he stared at Kris. "Wait a minute. You held it off. I remember that. You can do stuff like that, but you couldn't prove all this to me and Frank before?"

Kris shook her head. "It was both of us. I'm just a couple french fries. You're the double-cheeseburger, magically — don't even think of saying it, Josh."

Joshua closed his mouth.

"I was…" Kris seemed to search for words, "…well, pulling energy off you, Joe, mostly. That's why I got so sick, after. My system couldn't handle what you were throwing at me."

"Mostly? You were doing more?" Then the rest sunk in. "Wait — what I was throwing at you?"

Kris looked uneasy, glancing at Joshua. "Um…I'm not sure you're ready for the explanation."

"Cut the dramatics, Tagalong." Frank kicked her chair. "Josh tossed a fireball in our faces. We can handle it."

"Um…how about 'I'm not sure you'll understand the explanation'?"

"Can we kill her?" Joe said, to Joshua.

"I'm with them, chè," Joshua said to Kris. "Spit it out, or I'll gladly aid and abet whatever they do."

Staring at her hands, Kris said nothing for a long moment, biting her lip. "Um…Joe's an amp."

Joshua blinked. Joe waited, exchanged a look with Frank — who looked as confused as he was — then, finally, "Okay?"

"Amplifier," Joshua muttered. "Jesus wept, keep him away from Rafe." Then Joshua stopped, sucked in a breath. "Oh…hell."

Joe didn't understand their expressions. "I don't get it. What's the big deal?"

"Someone had better explain," Frank said.

Kris sighed. "Joe's mage-Gifted, like what Josh did last night. But more." Her gaze rested on Joe: serious, intent. "You hooking into someone or them hooking into you — you ramp their Gift up. Way up."

Joe and Frank looked at each other. "Define 'way up'," Frank said.

"Well…like for that ghost. My ten-watt light-bulb became a few thousand kilowatt floodlight."

Joe turned that around in his head a few times. "Okay. I think I get it. But what's so bad about that?"

"I get it more," Frank said quietly. "What they said, who the killer's targeting…Gifted, and untrained."

"I know," Joe said. "I figured that out last night."

"You're not getting all of it, darlin's," Joshua said. "The full reality's much worse. On that note, down to business. We need your story. All of it, from when you arrived in New Orleans."

Frank exchanged a look with Joe; Joe looked away. "On one condition," Frank said. "You tell us your side after. We're helping someone after the killer, too." Frank looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should bring Thatcher in on this. He could help us a lot."

"Supposedly," Joe muttered.

Bit by bit, the story came out: the theft of their wallets, Duveé, Thatcher, the dolls, and both Kris and Joshua dug more out of the story than Joe had thought he'd remembered, as thorough a questioning as anything Dad had ever put him and Frank through. By the time Joe got to finding Claire murdered, Joshua was pacing the gallery and Kris leaned on the table on her elbows, her head in her hands.

"Wallets?" Frank said. "You removed evidence?"

"I didn't want the cops looking at us!"

"Joe," Joshua said, "bring your jacket here. Don't remove the wallets. Don't touch them. Keep your hands as far from them as you can — Frank, I swear to God we'll tell you our side. Just hold off a moment."

Joe went to grab his jacket, holding it gingerly by the collar. Joshua took it and laid it on the gallery table, and studied it.

"Inside pocket," Joe said.

Joshua opened the jacket, stared hard, then pulled out both wallets, flipped one to Frank, who caught it. "Nothing," Joshua said.

"So…a warning?" Kris said. "Or threat?"

"Or letting us know that they know of these two — no, that makes no sense. They weren't aware of this stuff until afterthe murder. The killers couldn't have known Joe'd walk right into it." Joshua sighed. "A warning, yeah. Little too close to be otherwise."

"Hold it," Frank said. "'They'?"

"They," Joshua said. "Plural. The shark's got a partner."

"Wonderful," Joe said.

"But how'd they know about us?" Kris said, to Joshua. "We haven't done anything they could track. They've had us stonewalled. Why threaten someone who's no threat? They risked exposing themselves."

"Never grant a motive to something that's just dumb luck," Frank said. "That's what Dad says. Serial killers like outwitting the cops. That's where they make their mistakes. They think they're invincible."

"Fingerprints…?" Joe nodded at the wallet.

"Right, Joe. We're going to go to the cops and say, 'here you go, I removed them last night.' They'd lock us up." Frank shook his head. "They wouldn't take them, anyway. They've been contaminated. No use in evidence."

Joe picked up the other wallet. "Our credit cards are still here. That's one good thing."

"Wait." Frank straightened. "Not a warning. A lure. She —" Frank looked down. "The girl warned us. Then she turns up dead, with our wallets right there. The cops would've tracked the cards to us and hauled us in — that'd get us involved. And investigating."

"If we start poking around in places going after the killers when they're going after us…" Joe said.

"No." Frank tossed the wallet onto the table and leaned back in his chair with a frustrated sigh. "That's still not making sense. It'd be easier to just grab us."

"Not in the middle of Mardi Gras," Joshua said. "Too many witnesses. Better to have you walk into their trap of your own free will. Most of the sites have been near the main drags, but out of sight." Joshua grinned, leaning on the railing. "I take back some of what I said last night. You do have brains. I love intelligent men."

"You're not rich enough," Frank said, staring at the wallet on the table. "I like my dates financially solvent, thanks. Someone has to pay my way through college."

"He is the pragmatic one of the two of us," Joe said. "But I taught him everything he knows."

Now Frank looked up, grinning back at Joshua. "Your turn. Start talking."

"And he learns fast. Oh God, I'm in love." Joshua grinned at the brothers, then, in turns, he and Kris started. It took longer — Joe and Frank kept interrupting for definitions, for explanations, for explanations of the explanations. Kris went to get a marked map, along with a notebook that had the addresses and notes on the 'sessions', as well as everything she and Joshua had gotten — as thorough as any police report and as precise as anything Joe had ever seen Dad do. Joe's head felt stuffed full by the time they were halfway through; Frank was scowling at the map.

"Thatcher said Duveé had a warehouse on the docks," Frank said, under his breath. "What's along here?"

"Governor Nicholl's Wharf," Joshua said. "That's the closest. Problem is, there's tons of docks and warehouses. We are a bit of a river town, y'know."

"That one's federal property," Kris said. "That'd be awfully tight security to bypass."

Joshua snorted. "You're mistaking New Orleans officials for people who care, darlin'."

"But if they've got magic?" Joe said, to Kris.

"Maybe," Kris said. "Magic's not fool-proof. It'd still be a huge risk. All it'd take is one inconveniently alert Coast Guard."

"There's also this." Joshua touched another spot on the map. "The Marigny — quite a few old warehouses there, right by Nicholl's." Joshua looked up at Kris. "Both are on the edge of the Quarter, and less than a mile from where we're sitting. That's the closest to most of the sites."

"I don't like it," Kris said. "It feels too convenient. Why would a killer need a warehouse? And I don't get why Thatcher didn't just go to the police."

"That was my problem," Joe said.

"Trust those instincts," Joshua murmured.

"He didn't have proof," Frank said. "He thought the warehouse'd have that. He wanted us to help because he didn't feel safe going alone."

"But Thatcher told you he was working for the cops," Kris said. "The cops wouldn't help him?"

"No," Joe said suddenly. "He didn't say that. He didn't," Joe added defensively, when Frank glared. "You asked if he worked for them and he didn't say. You just assumed it."

Kris stared at Frank. "That's not like you. I'd expect that out of Joe, not you."

"I'd expect that out of me," Joe said.

"You keep mentioning this Thatcher and his book," Joshua broke in. "I think this is the point where I ask you damn Yankees who and what the hell you're talking about and to please let me in on the secret."

"Hang on. Alma's got it." Kris disappeared into the living room, came back with a red-and-black book, the artwork a blood-spattered goat's head.

"That one." Joshua stared. "You trust the guy who wrote this? I take back what I said about your brains, handsome. Date's off."

"He wrote a book about the cultural mores behind black magic." Frank sounded confused. "All the Satanic conspiracy stuff lately — it's just sensationalist marketing."

"It would be," Kris said, "if it wasn't so dead-on accurate —"

"Emphasis on dead," Joshua said.

"— and written from what he claims is first-hand experience. This is a how-to for doing blood magic."

"If you're thinking Thatcher's the killer, you're nuts," Frank said, with heat. "The man's an Oxford professor, Tag."

"You know what Dad says," Joe said. "'Criminals don't wear numbers until they're on the inside'."

"Joe…"

"The moment you touched that doll," Joe said, "you wanted to see Thatcher. You rushed off right then. You wouldn't listen to me at all." Joe saw Joshua straighten and stare hard at Frank. "Thatcher looked shocked when I said no. Like he couldn't believe I'd refuse."

"That's spook evidence, Joe," Frank said, glaring. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Then how did Thatcher know your driver's license was in that doll?" Joe countered. "He expected it there…which means he probably put it there. And he claimed the dolls were from the killers, remember?"

"I don't believe I missed it," Joshua muttered, cutting the argument off. He headed into the kitchen, rummaged through the cupboards, pulled down a canister of salt, found a bucket and rinsed and washed it out until it squeaked, then dumped the salt into the bucket and filled it with tap water. "Hawk, I need your lovely kick-'em-in-the-balls feminine side here, if you don't mind."

Kris rose. "Let me get my knife."

"Your knife?" Frank said. Both brothers had followed Joshua into the kitchen; Joe settled into a lean in the gallery doorway.

Kris patted Frank's shoulder as she passed and headed to the living room. "Don't worry, big brother, it won't hurt."

"Much." Joshua looked at Joe. "Let's try something, chè. Ever daydream? Just stare off into space and let your mind wander? Do that, and watch what we do. Let me know what you see."

Frank had fallen silent, scowling. Kris came back with her k-bar; Joe recognized it — she'd had it since high school. She knelt opposite Joshua across the bucket of water, her hands clasped around the hilt and Joshua's hands clasped around hers; they murmured something together that sounded like a ritual blessing. Joe breathed out, let his eyes relax as he watched the water —

The knife contacted the water and flashed, a white-silver crack across his vision. Joe jolted, cracked his head against the doorframe.

Frank stared. "Joe?"

Before Joe could answer, Joshua pushed himself up, hauling the bucket with him, and took Frank by the arm.

"Come on, handsome. You're taking a shower."

"Excuse me?"

"The dolls were lures," Joshua said patiently, "and targeted to you and your brother. You've got a nice, big, blood-magic cord on you, yanking you God-knows-where, but I can guess. We're getting it off you, and this is the least painful option. Move."

"I'd hate to see the most painful," Joe said, and grinned at Frank's glare.

"It's not bad," Kris said to Joe, as Joshua dragged Frank out of the kitchen; there was a yelp from the hallway, followed by a door slam and the sounds of water running. "If it was, Josh'd have me raiding St. Mary's to get their holy water."

A multitude of questions rose up. Joe decided none of them were important at the moment. "I feel useless," he said instead. "You and Josh — you know what you're doing, and me — I hardly understand what you two are talking about."

"You're not useless, chè." Joshua came back into the kitchen. "We were stonewalled. We had the how, but nothing else. Then you two show up, bringing us not only a solid signature on the SOB, but also a possible who and where. You didn't know what it meant, but you knew enough to bring it to us and you got yourself and your brother away from possibly one of the killers."

"Possibly?" Joe said.

Joshua nodded. "I'm with your brother. I want more proof before we go jumping in. Though from what you've said, we're stalking the right trail."

"Me and Josh go at it alone, we'll get nowhere," Kris said. "You and Frank go at it alone, you're next on the kill list. We work together, we might nail them."

The phone rang. Joshua snatched it up. "Duprè." Then he winced and held the receiver away from his ear — the voice on the other was loud, even where Joe was standing. "Rafe, calm down." Joshua listened, his face tight, grim. "I hear you. I believe you. You told Mar?" A long moment, then Joshua lifted his chin at Kris, passed the phone to her.

Another loud voice from the receiver, different and tenor. "Vão, please," Kris said, rubbing at her forehead. "Easy. Spit it out. In order. And tell Rafe to breathe."

"Karma?" Joe said to Joshua.

Joshua nodded. "It's now officially FUBAR."

Dressed, damp, and toweling his hair, Frank appeared back in the kitchen. "Happy now?" he growled at Joshua.

"No," Joshua said. "You need to take off all your clothes and go stand on the gallery for five minutes. In the sunshine."

Glaring, Frank only settled into an arms-crossed lean.

"Damn skeptical mundane," Joshua said sadly. He lifted an eyebrow at Joe. "Back to normal?"

Somehow, Joe kept his face straight. "I'd say he needs another shower."

"Vão," Kris said, into the phone, over loud squawking from the receiver, "I believe you. Josh believes you. We'll run it down — Rafe!" Her eyes closed, she waved a hand at Joshua.

"Back out on the gallery, guys," Joshua said, and shut the door behind them once they were back out in the sun.

"That was Karma," Joshua said, to Frank. "Rafe Hollen, Vão Carvalo. If Joe's a magic cheeseburger, those two are enough Happy Meals to feed Mardi Gras, with extra pickles. Vão's an Empath, Rafe's mage like me — sorry, 'Empath', someone who can sense and project emotions. Almost everyone has it, in some degree. Vão's, though, is so ramped up that he runs the risk of being driven catatonic if he ever goes unshielded in any crowd."

"And he's a rock singer?" Joe said.

"Tell me about it," Joshua said. "His middle name's 'Contrary S.O.B.', I swear. Music helps him, somehow — we still don't understand it. Anyway, they were out on Bourbon yesterday. Bar-crawling, watching the drunken tits, the usual. They found themselves in a little bar called 'Samedi's' — sound familiar?"

Joe and Frank exchanged looks. Kris opened the gallery doors, came out to lean on the gallery rail, her head bowed.

"Rafe saw Duveé's act," Joshua said. "Duveé's using real magic. And Rafe, not being subtle and acting on impulse —" the disgust in Joshua's voice hurt, "— checked for signature. He couldn't be sure whose it was; he was getting deflected. But someone onstage matched that photo we told you about."

"Duveé?" Joe said; Joshua didn't answer.

"Worse," Kris said, head still bowed. "He thinks Duveé caught him at it. Duveé got their autographs, in a way they couldn't refuse. Vão said they signed something that had a weird symbol on it — what he described sounded like Samedi's vévé."

"Jesus wept, darlin', sometimes I really want to bust the heads of those rockers of yours."

"Worse — their bodyguards — our good, trained Blades —" Kris's tone was edged with sarcasm, "— aren't taking it seriously. And nothing Vão or Rafe say to them makes any difference. They're 'making a big deal over nothing'. Rafe has no idea what Mar did with the photo, either."

Frank and Joe exchanged another look. "Makes sense," Frank said slowly, "if Duveé's the killer. The bar's the lure and cover. He must get a ton of tourists in there."

"Like us," Joe said. "And if Duveé and Thatcher are working together…"

"Jesus. Four days of absolutely nothing, and the moment you two arrive, we're on a runaway train." Joshua leaned back in his chair, eyes closed and arm thrown over them.

"The only saving grace," Kris said, "is that Rafe didn't sign that thing. And he can smack most of us into the ground. Same with Vão, if he keeps his cool."

"Problem," Joshua said. "Our killers have been raising a lot of power — and 'cool' is not a word I'd use in the same sentence as Vão. Or Rafe."

"I know." Kris sounded defeated. "I told Rafe to find that photo at all costs and burn it. Us going over there and trying to talk sense into Shimá or do our own magic isn't going to work — the Blades'll just toss us out."

"Mar was in the background the whole time," Joshua said to Frank and Joe, "jumping their cases for bothering us with 'nonsense'. That also sound familiar?"

Joe nodded slowly: Frank had blown him off when Joe had first suggested taking the dolls to Joshua and Kris.

"But what can we do?" Frank said. "I'm not — I mean, if these killers are using magic…"

"Don't," Kris said. "I got on Joe's case about that, when Josh was having his way with you in the bathroom." Joshua snorted; Frank went red. "You're not useless, big brother. You heard Josh. You two have given us our first shot at being able to nail the SOBs."

"By accident," Joe said. "We only found out about this because they have us targeted…" He stopped; Frank was staring at him.

Then it hit. The killers used magic, and Joe could supposedly "amp" such things…and they'd had him targeted…

"Accident, yeah, right," Joshua said. "Why are you here now? Because you knew to bring it to us. You knew something was wrong in the first place. The only accident so far was you running into us the first time." Quieter, "Though I have some suspicions on that."

"I'll tell you what we need," Kris said, "and you two are the best to get it. We've got our suspects. We've got a lot of psychic evidence —"

"Physical evidence," Frank said, with another glance at Joe.

"Exactly," Joshua said. "Cops don't like sharing their stuff with psychics. For really good reason, the courts won't accept spook evidence. We need the physical side. The cops might already have evidence to link it without knowing it. Working backwards — that should be easy for you two."

"Your dad might have contacts down here," Kris added. "So you could get in with the cops. We can't."

"That'll take too much time," Frank said. "If the killers are targeting Karma, they'll have to strike fast."

The unspoken: that such research could take days. Time they didn't have, especially Joe and Frank…

…time in which the killers would strike again, maybe Karma, or worse, someone they didn't know, couldn't protect, couldn't prevent…

"But it's time we need to take," Joshua said. "If you two work that end, that leaves us free for the other stuff."

All of it had the sound of 'keep them safely out of the way'; Joe scowled. Below him, the street was starting to come alive, tourists lining up at the bakery across the way, a jazz band warming up on the corner, flags and bunting waving in the breeze, bright colors glowing warmly in the sun…

…and on that same street, a woman had been murdered, in the middle of the party, tortured and raped while Mardi Gras had swirled around her, a woman who'd tried to warn him at the cost of her own life…

Joe was finding it hard to talk; an idea was creeping up, one he didn't like, one he couldn't see any way around. "Or…" Joe breathed out, got control of his voice. "Or…we draw 'em out. Trap them."

Kris raised her head; Joshua only looked at him.

"We've run cons before." Joe tried to sound cool and off-hand, like Paul Newman in the The Sting. He didn't feel it. "Set a trap, bait it with something the criminal wants —"

"Like you," Frank said slowly.

Joe tried for a cocky grin. "Untrained Gifted double-cheeseburger, come and get it."

"No!" Kris shoved away from the railing. "Hell no!"

"Kris," Joshua overrode her, "he's an adult. He's older than you. He can make that choice."

"Don't you dare, Josh. He doesn't know what it means."

"I saw the murder," Joe said fiercely. "I know —"

"No," Kris overrode him, "you don't. I saw more than you did. I saw it like it was happening. Claire was raped. Tortured. That's the M.O. all the sites have had. All of them raped, all of them mutilated, all of them tortured to death. The police haven't even found half the bodies, only parts. You think you know what that means? You couldn't even handle looking at a body!"

"So how else are we going to get 'em?" Joe shot back, shoving away from the railing, arms spread. "You said it. I'm untrained, I'm Gifted, I'm what they want! They're trying to lure me, so we lure them!"

"You don't know torture!"

"And you do?" Then Joe clamped his mouth shut. Wrong thing to say, to her.

"You sure don't," Kris snarled. "You don't know what it's like to get beaten so hard your bones shatter. You don't want to know how creative someone can get with household tools. Hot irons can be such fun —"

"Kris," Joshua said.

Kris turned away.

"That's what you'll face, Joe," Joshua said. "If it goes bad. If they snatch the bait and we can't get to you, or they manage to erase the trail like they've done on all the other sites."

"Is that what you want me explaining to your dad?" Arms crossed, Kris glared at Joe again. "You want Frank to have to tell your dad that? You want Frank to be sitting here, knowing what's happening to you and unable to stop it? Ask him, Joe. Ask him if that's what he wants to do."

Joe looked down; Frank had his head in his hands, not looking at Joe. Joe managed one word. "Frank?"

Frank's hands clenched; he brought them down in front of his face, breathing through them, eyes closed. A long, shaking moment, then Frank looked up. As much as he wanted to look away, as unbearable as the expression on Frank's face was, Joe held the gaze.

Frank bowed his head.

"Well?" Joshua said, to Joe.

Joe shoved away, off the gallery to the living room. There he halted, pacing, trying to get his calm back. He glanced towards the gallery; a loud argument had erupted. Joshua stood over Kris, and even though Kris was right back in Joshua's face, Joshua looked to be winning. The words "what choice do we have?" were the loudest. Frank sat there, watching them both, but then he looked through the gallery doors, caught sight of Joe.

Joe turned away. Color caught his eye: the vibrant, glowing painting of Joan of Arc, golden on her white horse, sword upraised. Beside it, another painting of another saint, also on horseback with a spear, his enemies fleeing before him. Below them on a thin table behind the couch, an odd statue: an elderly black man, hobbling on a cane, guided by an alert hound. The room's cinnamon and vanilla smell had an odd undertone of cigar smoke, alcohol, and, strangely, burnt peanuts, though given all the visitors and the restaurant below, that was probably normal.

"St. Joan of Arc,"Alma said, behind him, so low he barely heard her. "Erzulie. The protector — and avenger — of women and children. You know how her story ends. The other, St. James the Greater, the son of thunder, the raging warrior and protector of his people. He was martyred, slain by the sword for daring to speak out to King Herod. And the statue, St. Peter, Papa Legba, guardian of the crossroads, the communicator who gives understanding."

His arms crossed, Joe bowed his head. "What are you telling me?"

"What you know already."

"What I know," Joe echoed. "Right."

Hands were on his shoulders, warm, friendly. "Warriors think they know the price they'll pay, eventually, for the goal they desire. Most discover otherwise. Joan, burnt at the stake. James,slain as he spoke. Unlike them, you know the true price, ahead of the goal."

Joe said nothing. He was always the one to stay out of trouble. He never wanted to get into it. But, now, if he didn't...

The grip tightened, a friendly shake. "If you choose your path because it is the best choice, that is one thing. If you choose it because you think it is the only way that exists for you, that is another. You have a warrior's soul, little brother. Don't let it overwhelm you."

Annoyed by the 'little brother', Joe started to turn. The hands stopped him.

A grin laced through the voice. "You know, Samedi is not only the spirit of death, but of life. You can't have one without the other. You don't want to die, all I need to do is refuse to dig your grave." The cigar smoke was suddenly stronger. "So many women un-fucked and rum un-drunk for one so young. You really need to change schools."

Outraged, Joe wrenched around —

No one was there.

Joe stood a moment. Right behind him was the painting of the centurion and the man in the shabby tuxedo and sunglasses. Finally, Joe breathed out, headed back out onto the gallery. Loud, angry voices suddenly washed over him, but whatever argument had been going on stilled when he crossed the threshold.

"We'll run with it," Joshua said to him. "You're right. It might not be the only, but it is the best shot we've got. If you still choose to do it, that is."

"Before we do anything else," Kris said, before Joe could open his mouth, "before you and butterfly there go charging in half-cocked on this really stupid idea —"

"Kris," Joshua said again.

Kris ignored him. "— we're going to stake out Samedi's. You wanna play bait, here's your chance. We want to get a first-hand look at this Duveé and Thatcher. It might be we're chasing a false trail —"

"We're not, and you know it," Joshua said. "Stop talkin' like Mar, partner."

"I can take care of myself, Tagalong," Joe said.

"Don't kid yourself. You want to be bait? That means we can't train you. Nothing."

"No shields," Joshua said. "Nothing that looks like you might be working with someone else. That means we can't even put our protections on you, or on Frank. They will spot it, and they'll do one of two things. Either spook and go to ground, and we're back to square —"

"Or they kill you outright, because they'll figure you know too much," Kris said.

"You took that…cord…off Frank," Joe said. "They'll spot that."

"They might," Joshua said. "But it could've been removed normally. In the shower or whatever, without the holy water thrown in. Maybe. It's just possible."

"Okay, Joe," Kris said. "Put up or shut up. Now it's not just you. This idea of yours drags Frank into the line of fire. You can't just show up without him — he was targeted, too. Two voodoo dolls. You're going to keep our sharks distracted with your bloody fresh bait while me and Joshua scout the enemy. You still want to do this?"

"I do," Frank said. "I'm in."

Joe's heart froze. "No."

Frank met Joe's gaze. "You made your choice. I'm making mine. We're a team, brother. End statement."

"Cue touching family moment." Joshua pushed to his feet. "Me, I'm gonna go leave a bottle of rum at St. Louis's. If we can just convince Expedite not to dig your graves, this'll all be perfect."

"Wait — what?" Joe snagged Joshua's arm.

"Darlin', if you start freakin' out again over Voodoo, forget the killers. I'm going to be the one after your ass."

"It's local tradition, Joe," Kris broke in. "Folks who don't want to die bargain with St. Expedite to not dig their graves. And he really likes rum."

Joe said nothing.

"Hey," Frank nudged him. "You okay?"

It was such a…Frank…question. Joe looked up — and caught Joshua giving him an odd, searching stare.

"Make it two bottles," Joe said, "and a Happy Meal. I'm in."