"Amy, wait!" Harry Duckler's anguished voice called after her as she forced her way through the thick crowds now enjoying the band. The music was in full swing, and she paused involuntarily, but not because of his call, but rather because of the musicians and the old man who was looking straight at her.

He smiled at her, his gaze riveted to her despite the fact that she was sure he couldn't see her through those filmy eyes. His smile revealed a jack-o-lantern mouth of uneven, missing, yellow teeth, some of the remaining ones filed to sharp points.

The musicians were jamming, twisting bright Dixieland jazz with darker strands of dissonant notes and Congolese rhythms. The old man sang, but his words were nonsense syllables – or at least, that's how they sounded to everyone else. But Amy knew better. The nonsense sounds were Creole corruptions of old African and Native American chants, prayers uttered during human possession by the loa, or spirits.

She had heard songs like this many, many times, both in Port-au-Prince and New Orleans, but this reminded her of the more savage, rougher music played in the hinterlands of the deep South and up in the hills of Haiti. This was the real incantation, and the fact that all these guests were swaying in time with it, moving in jerky dance movements showed that they were becoming as entwined and entranced by it as any Voodoo devotee who twisted and jumped to the music of the ceremonial drums.

But the music had a different effect on her. It snapped her out of the strange emotional state she had been in since the night before, when the Batman had abandoned her. It pushed him, Bruce (oh God, what had she done?), and Harry all to the back of her mind. There was still a murderer out there. A bokor killing the spiritual servants of the people in the Ancien Quartier, a new bizango in town, and now something called the League of Shadows and Ra's al Ghul to deal with. No more of this silly emotional stuff. She could sort that out later. She had a job to do.

She was just setting her jaw and reaching this conclusion when Harry caught up to her. Gently, he took her in his arms and turned her to look up at him. His expression was sorrowful but gentle and almost pleading.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," she began to say, but he cut her off by putting his finger to her lips.

"Shh, it's not your fault," he said softly, even smiling a little. "Bruce Wayne is used to getting what he wants, and he can be quite…persuasive."

She frowned a little at the reminder that Harry and Bruce knew each other, and she remembered Bruce's warning about Harry, and his own admission of having been part of the bad things Harry had allegedly done.

"Go ahead and get the car," she muttered to Harry, trying to muster up a smile for him. "I have to do one thing, then I'll be down."

"What do you have to do?" Harry asked with a frown.

Amy shook her head. She couldn't risk involving Harry in this bad business. It was too dangerous, and no matter what he had done in the past, she didn't want to see him dead because he got in the way of some bloodthirsty bizango.

"Just go get the car. I have to ask someone a question. I'll be down in just a minute."

"I don't want to leave you here alone."

She was torn between irritation that he wouldn't just do as she asked and gratitude for him caring about her and worrying about her.

"Seriously? Harry? The sooner you go, the sooner I'll be back with you."

"What is it you need to do?" he persisted, a strange, steely edge to his voice now.

"It's a female thing, okay?" she hissed, secretly pleased with her spur-of-the-moment idea, counting on the natural male reaction of ew-don't-tell-me-anything-more when it came to matters feminine.

And it worked.

Harry seemed surprised, but looked a bit sheepish and turned to leave. She watched him until he had disappeared into the elevator, then she ran over to the caterer, who was checking on the buffet table. He was a large, black man who carried the air and dignity of an artist with him.

"Excuse me," Amy said breathlessly. "Do you know who the band is?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't," he said, pressing his lips into a disapproving thin line. He seemed to hesitate, and then added, "and I don't particularly like them, either."

"Why?" she asked, seizing on what seemed to be his instinctual dislike.

"They're singing some bad juju right there. It isn't right to do that here, at a party."

"Why do you think they're doing it?"

"I don't know, but I don't intend to stick around and find out. I'll be hiding in the kitchen if you need anything else," the caterer said with an apologetic smile and walked away.

Amy was just about to go find Alfred to ask who the band was when she felt an arm slip around her waist. She turned, not surprised, to see herself face-to-face with Bruce Wayne.

"Amy, listen to me," he began, but she cut him off.

"No way. You said that before and look what happened."

"I'm sorry about that. I thought…that you…you were, uh, liking it, and…"

"Never mind about that. Listen, I've got to go. I need to find Alfred, then I've gotta get out of here." She was privately amazed at the way she was able to keep her emotions so tightly bottle up, even though his arms around her were rekindling the sparks and flames in her body that had just been starting to cool down.

"What's going on? Are you in trouble?" There was concern in his voice, but also a new edge to it that sent shivers down her spine.

She gave him a long, searching look, trying to find some way, some reason to trust him. He still carried all the baggage of her suspicions of him being the mastermind behind the murders. Maybe he was Ra's al Ghul? The thought, which had just popped into her mind, was like switching on a light bulb for her. Now she understood everything. It all made sense.

Harry was waiting for her, and he'd come back up if she took any longer. She couldn't put him harm's way, but she couldn't let Bruce Wayne slip out of her grasp. He had broken up with her that morning, but he had kissed her that evening, and therein lay her chance.

She steeled herself mentally, praying for strength and self-control. Deliberately, she let herself relax into his arms, noting the reflexive way they moved to hold her more gently instead of restraining her. She cupped his face in her hands and looked up at him, putting all of her uncertainty and just a little tiny bit of her attraction into what she hoped was a sweet, uncertain, beguiling look.

His face froze, and she had never seen anything like it before. It was as if he had almost paralyzed his muscles to keep from showing any emotion or any indication of what he was thinking or feeling. Still, she thought that in and of itself was a hopeful sign.

She went up on her tip-toes and brought her lips to his in a kiss that was as soft and uncertain as she looked. Unlike the urgent, punishing kisses he had demanded from her earlier, this was slower, gentler, more sensuous than passionate. But it triggered the same intense response from him. He held her to his body, deepening their kiss right there, on the dance floor in front of all his guests, but only she could hear the faint moan rumbling in his chest as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pressed into her as if he could melt into her.

Amy was struggling with every last ounce of reason she had left to hold onto her purpose, which was to get him hot and bothered enough that he would want her to call him the next day. But every time she tried to pull away, he pulled her back and pulled her under, where she kept willingly going.

Finally, she took her hands from his face and pushed them against his chest. He broke off their kiss but didn't release her. She looked up and met his eyes, and something about the intensity of their expression frightened her. It was like a hungry wolf, but soul-hungry, heart-hungry in the most agonizing way. It almost physically hurt her to look at him.

She reached up and brushed his lips with hers one more time, then whispered, "I'll call you tomorrow."

She glanced up at his eyes and saw them tighten, as if in doubt, and she realized he might be misconstruing her words as just an offer of a date. She hastened to correct that impression.

"I do need to talk to you," she added, letting her very real anxiety creep into her voice. "I think I am in trouble."

"Stay here," he whispered. "I can keep you safe here."

"I have to go, but I will call. I promise. Wait for me, Bruce."

With that, she pulled herself away from him and ran to the elevator, praying that Harry wasn't on his way back up.

A/N: Just a quickie to keep you going! If you want an example of a nonsense syllable sone, "Iko Iko" is a good one to think of. Jazz and voodoo in New Orleans have long been linked...even Louis Armstrong did his time, sneaking into the red light districts to listen to the 'forbidden jazz.'

More to come for both "Spellbinding" and my new fic, "Documentary Evidence."

Yours in Mischief,

Kate