Page 8 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“Did she, now?” said Charley, beaming at him. It was a good day when her potential clients did the heavy lifting for her. Releasing his hand, Charley idly strolled toward the stage, Zavier and Astrid observing her progress. “My associates from Black and Bell will be delighted to take your name and information for an in-depth consultation.” Astrid and Zavier both gave the audience an insouciant wave and smile. “There’s no question about your future I can’t answer.”

“I have a question.” The room’s collective attention turned toward the entrance of the parlor. The voice belonged to a figure more storm cloud than man. Mid-twenties, thick brown curls that swooped over blue eyes, tattoos that dripped down his forearms from underneath a black T-shirt and jeans. A friendly smile that did not reach those baby blues. In fact, those eyes looked like they were capable of incinerating her on the spot.

Charley and Zavier exchanged a quick glance before she returned her full attention to the stranger. She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in his relaxed posture, his confidence. Murder Eyes or not, he did not have an appointment.

“I yield the floor to tall, dark, and stormy,” she greeted him, staying in character. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“Sy Prescott,” the stranger replied, the confident smile widening. “You said you could answer any question.”

“Correct. With an appointment.”

“Your unparalleled psychic ability is based on whether or not I have an appointment?”

Murder Eyes was trying her patience. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of a tour, Mr. Prescott.”

“And I have a legitimate question that I think only you can answer.”

Charley looked to Zavier, who shook his head—no, absolutely not—then back at Sy, who stared her down with that dumb smile. He was daring her to say yes; she could feel it. Astrid also shook her head in time with Zavier. But no way this bastard was going to make a mockery of Charley in her own house.

“All right, I’ll bite.” She ignored Astrid’s and Zavier’s deep sighs from beside the stage. “What is your question?”

“What number am I thinking of?” he said proudly, folding his arms so that his tattoos were emphasized on his forearms.

Charley blinked in surprise. “That’s your question?”

“Yep. One to ten,” he said with breezy confidence. “You’re a Bryde family psychic, correct?” he asked, sizing up her bustier and spiked heels. She felt her cheeks go hot. This was her standard-issue tour uniform, a mash-up of sex appeal and centurion’s shield that made her feel ten feet tall. Except the way he was looking at her now made her feel stripped to the bone. He grinned at her as if reading her mind. “This should be child’s play for you.” For emphasis, he placed his hands behind him. “The witnesses behind me can attest that I am holding up the number behind my back.” Sy turned so that his hand was visible to the tourist with the backpack. The man in the backpack nodded, and all the tourists looked to Charley.

Ball. Her court.

Zavier and Astrid exchanged a worried glance.

“I don’t do parlor tricks,” said Charley, folding her arms in defiance.

Prescott studied her, his charming smile quickly turning predatory. “You’re gonna have to prove you’re capable of doing anything else.”

Charley felt the fire ignite in her belly. This man was insulting her in her own home. But Zavier was one step ahead of her.

“All right, she’s toyed with you enough.” Zavier clomped his six-foot-four frame toward Prescott, eager to escort him out. “Let’s put you out of your misery before she does.” Zavier was all smiles and flair and quite possibly the kindest human she knew. But Charley also knew that he made sport of bouncing out the assholes and drunks who invariably crashed the tour.

But.

This asshole was hers.

“Z?”

“Charley,” he volleyed back, until he caught the glint in her eye. Zavier nodded and stepped back, his hands spread wide as if giving her his blessing.

With laser beam focus on Prescott, Charley gave him a sweet smile, slowly approaching him. He met her gaze, though unsure of what was coming. With the panache of a magician, she held up her left hand, palm first, to reveal that it was empty. She followed suit with the right, also empty. Prescott straightened as she stopped her advance mere inches from his face. Giving him a coy smile, she reached behind his head as if to pull him to her for a kiss. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled her hand away, revealing the rose that previously had been pinned behind her ear. If it took ten thousand hours to master a skill, she had turned pro in plucking flowers from the ether. He stared at her in frustration as she tucked the rose into his lapel.

“There’s your parlor trick, Mr. Prescott,” she announced brightly. She stretched out her hand, waving it back and forth to produce from the air yet another rose she casually tucked behind her ear. “But telling you what number you randomly selected out of ten is a question of probability and statistics, not of genuine psychic ability. And,” she emphasized, unable to keep the spite from her voice, “an amateurish attempt to debunk me in front of people who actually paid for a tour today. So I suggest that if and when you have a genuine question for me, go through the Black and Bell website and book yourself an appointment.” She turned on her heels with a satisfied smile and sauntered toward the fireplace.

“You still didn’t tell me what number,” called out Prescott from behind her.

She froze and slowly turned around to face him.

“Oh, what the hell.” She held up three fingers, and when backpack guy nodded his approval, the tourists behind him gasped and broke into applause. She gave a spontaneous curtsey before turning to Prescott with a grin. “You might as well have been wearing it on your forehead.”

Prescott studied her, his face blank before finally nodding, conceding defeat. He turned around and exited the parlor as silently as he had arrived.