In the meantime, he'd come up with a version of events that put him in a better light. No mysterious couple.

Certainly no walking into their trap. And there'd been two – no, maybe four – cops searching the apartment. He'd waited for hours, but they hadn't left. Adele couldn't blame him for that... he hoped.

HOPE

Hope called Robyn from the car. Robyn sounded as if she'd been sleeping, groggy, confused. Hope said they had her laptop and some clothes and were going to pick up food before coming back. They'd be there in an hour or so.

Then, with the danger past, Karl wanted to hear details of her plans for a cabin getaway. Hope was happy to oblige...

in every way.

Afterward, still parked where they'd stopped, she took out the laptop. She didn't like snooping through Robyn's files, but if Portia's killer was the supernatural Hope had sensed in the club, she'd better get a look at this picture before Robyn did.

Proof of their existence was something supernaturals would kill for – not only to protect themselves from exposure, but to save their ass from the council, the Cabals and every pissed-off supernatural who'd come gunning for them. But when Hope found the picture it was exactly what Robyn said: a picture of Jasmine Wills in the most god-awful outfit imaginable.

Karl leaned over. "Is she going to a costume party?"

"Even I can tell this is one criminal fashion faux pas. Criminal enough to turn Jasmine into a murderer? Portia takes it and calls Jasmine to gloat. Jasmine knows where she'll be that night. She goes to Bane with a gun, planning to threaten Portia. But if you take a gun to a fight, you'd better be damned sure you can control your temper because all it takes is one tug on the trigger."

"True."

"But if it was Jasmine, Portia would have recognized her. So maybe this isn't why her killer wanted the cell phone.

Maybe she only went after Rob because she was a witness. Or maybe she didn't go after her at all. A woman definitely shot Portia, and Rob was sure a guy killed the undercover officer. A partner? Totally unrelated?" Hope rubbed her temples. "Okay, tell me to stop blathering."

"Never. I like your blathering."

She glanced over at him. "Are you okay with this? It seems I'm always dragging you into some mess or another."

"You don't drag. I follow for the entertainment value." He angled the laptop more toward him. "So, we have this photo of a girl in an ugly dress. She's on a sidewalk. In the background, there's a store window. Behind her, we have a couple – "

"Shit. Isn't that – ?"

Hope turned the laptop back for a better look. She'd been so blinded by the hideousness of Jasmine's outfit that she hadn't even noticed the two people at the edge of the frame. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit and a girl barely out of her teens, deep in conversation.

"That's a Nast."

Karl frowned, leaning over the armrest for a better look. Hope turned the laptop toward him again and pointed to the man.

"You recognize him?" he asked.

"No, but I recognize the look."

The Nasts ran the largest of the four North American Cabals. Their head office was in L.A. Hope had more contact with the Cortezes, out of Miami, but she'd seen enough photos of the Nasts to recognize one. Sixty-five years ago, they could have served as poster boys for Hitler's Aryan army – tall, broad-shouldered, blond-haired, with bright blue eyes.

Handsome in a severe, arrogant way, as if they'd sooner crush you under their Gucci loafers than speak to you – and with most Nasts, you were wise to take that as a warning.

Hope pointed at the photo. "If this guy is a Nast, you can bet this is why Portia Kane was killed for this photo. As for why..."

"I doubt that girl beside him is his daughter."

"Given the fact that sorcerers don't have daughters, I'd say it's a sure bet. And she's too young to be his personal assistant. If Portia Kane accidentally snapped a photo of a middle-aged guy with his post-pubescent mistress, that hardly seems worth killing her for. But we're talking about a Cabal. If this photo could damage the reputation of a top exec, he'd want it back. Portia Kane and Robyn would be considered expendable." She opened the mail program. "But all that hinges on this guy being a Nast. If you can drive until I pick up a wireless connection, I should have an answer for us by morning."

Hope didn't need to wait until morning. She sent an e-mail, then called to leave a message at Lucas's office, not wanting to bother him at home so late. But someone answered the office phone.

"Cortez-Winterbourne Investigations. Ridding the world of evil, one demonic entity at a time."

"I hope that's not how you normally handle the office phones, Savannah."

"Absolutely. Weeds out the cranks and telemarketers, let me tell ya."

"What are you doing there so late?"

The line hissed, as if Savannah was getting comfortable. "Working my ass off as always. You know those Cortezes.

Work supernaturals into the grave, then bring 'em back and work 'em some more. So I'm here and I just got your e-mail. Now, let me get this straight. You have this photo, everyone who touches it goes on some kind of death list, and now you're sending it to me. I've seen this in a movie, you know."

"That was a video."

"Close enough."

Karl glanced over, brows arching.

"Savannah," Hope mouthed.

He rolled his eyes. He didn't have much patience for the nineteen-year-old witch. Hope liked her well enough, but it seemed she had a soft spot for cocky, overconfident supernaturals.

"Okay, so I'm opening this photo and if I die, I am so going to haunt your ass. Let's see. It's – " Savannah let out a shriek. "Holy fucking mother of God. What is that thing?"

"You like?"

"I think I'm blind now. That's the curse, isn't it? Look at the picture and – Wait, isn't that Jasmine something-or-other? One of those Paris-lites?"

"You read the tabloids, Savannah? Say it isn't so."

"Are you kidding? I'm the ward of two well-educated, cultured individuals. I read the New Yorker, Harper's and sometimes National Geographic, but only for the half-naked guys. I do, however, indulge in True News on occasion, to enjoy the journalistic stylings of their in trepid paranormal reporter. Call me crazy, but I think that girl knows of what she speaks."