Touch the Dark Read Free Page A

he’d go away, but he never gets lost until I need him. My level of aggravation must have shown on my face, because Portia stopped in the middle of the story about a party where two officers had fought each other over the last place on her dance card. It was one of her favorites and she was clearly not pleased to see my attention wandering. “You aren’t listening, Cassie. Is something wrong?” An angry snap of her little lace-edged fan said there had damn well better be.
    â€œTony’s found me and I need to get out of town. But I have to go by the club first, and I need a lookout.”
    I knew as soon as I said it that I should have kept my mouth shut. Portia’s eyes got even bigger, and she clapped her dainty gloved hands together delightedly. “Oh, what fun! I’ll help!”
    â€œUm, that’s really generous of you, Portia, but I don’t think . . . I mean, there’s a lot of ways into the club, and you couldn’t cover all of them.” But Portia got a familiar, steely glint in her eyes and I immediately relented. Most of the time she was sugar sweet, but get her upset at you and things could get bad fast.
    â€œI’ll find help,” she promised. “It’ll be like a party!” She disappeared in a swirl of petticoats, and I sighed. Some of Portia’s friends were even more annoying than she was, but any lookouts were better than none. And I didn’t have to worry about Tony’s boys noticing them. Even if he’d sent vamps, they wouldn’t see a thing.
    As strange as it sounds, a lot of people in the supernatural community don’t believe in ghosts. Oh, some will agree that there is the occasional troubled spirit who hangs around its grave for awhile before accepting the inevitable, but few would accept it if I told them just how many spirits stick around after death, how many different types there are, and how active some of them can be. Spirits like Portia and Billy Joe are, for the supernatural community, like vamps are to the human — old stories and legends that are dismissed without proof. What can I tell you? It’s a weird world.
    I arrived at the club a few minutes later, out of breath and with aching arches, but intact. Showing up was, of course, a really bad idea. Even if nobody had followed me, a dozen people at the agency and my apartment building knew I worked there part-time. It was also only a block from Peachtree, which was not a coincidence I liked. If it ended up getting me killed, I planned to come back and haunt Tony. But I couldn’t leave without warning my roommate and making some kind of arrangement for him. I had enough guilt without adding another messed-up life to my total.
    The club, with its high ceiling of exposed steel joints, graffiti-covered concrete walls and massive dance floor, was larger than most, but that night, there were enough gyrating figures under the hanging disco lights to make it almost claustrophobic. I was grateful for the crush, since it made it less likely that anyone would notice me. I slipped in the back way and didn’t encounter any problems — at least, not of the gun-waving, homicidal variety.
    One of the bartenders had called in sick, so they were shorthanded, and Mike tried to talk me into subbing as soon as he saw me. Normally I wouldn’t have minded, since my usual job as one of his novelty acts didn’t provide much in tips. I read tarot three nights a week, although I’ve never liked the cards. I used them because it’s expected, but I don’t need to squint at archaic images to know what’s about to happen. My visions come in Technicolor and surround sound, and are a lot more complete. But most people would have preferred a standard reading to what I gave out. Like I said, I’m better at Seeing the bad stuff. Tonight, though, I declined the chance to make a few bucks. I didn’t think bartending was the way I wanted to spend my