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ended, however, after Diane discovered that her
affinity for the goddess wasn’t merely a reflection of their home
life, and Cora decided that she simply had no affinity at all.
    What she remembered most fondly about the
velvet-and-eyeliner set (the “fashionably witchy,” as she and Diane
referred to them) was the endless parade of beauty. Even people who
wouldn’t ordinarily be called anything close to pretty were
beautiful when they donned their nightlife costumes. The general
atmosphere, the mood of the crowd, was sexually charged.
    Hovering on the outskirts of an intellectual
clique, wine in hand, Cora listened in on a conversation that
listed into a dissection of a Poppy Z. Brite novel she had heard
about but not read. She murmured an occasional vague response, but
the group was low pressure because nobody knew her and nobody
looked to her for an opinion. Invisibility suited Cora. She became
so comfortable with it that she nearly jumped out of her skin when
somebody brushed against her back. She turned her head slightly,
caught a vague male shape in her peripheral vision, and moved to
give him room. He followed her, though, pressing close and stopping
her retreat by gently claiming her elbow.
    “We need to talk,” he said into her ear. Cora
quailed; a hundred responses tripped over one another in her head.
None of them penetrated the sudden shock brought on by his voice,
by the heat of his body against her bare back. She had no idea that
a mob boss would radiate so much heat. If anything, if she had to
guess the temperature of a criminal, she would have gone with ice
cold.
    The book clique’s dialogue fumbled. First
one, then another bibliophile glanced her way. Within the span of a
dozen seconds, the discussion ceased entirely, and the clique
hurried away, leaving Cora alone with him. She still didn’t know
what to say.
    She was acutely aware of his presence.
Everything else became faded colors and background noise. Fresh
male sweat and a hint of cologne that she didn’t recognize cut
through the twisting clouds of cigarette smoke and heavy perfumes.
She should have moved away, stepped aside to establish some space,
and bring him into her line of sight. She was rooted to the spot,
though. Something more powerful than gravity kept her pinned in the
close circle of his body space. It took everything she had to stop
herself from turning her head to lick his jaw so she could compare
flavor to fragrance. That she even entertained the idea of touching
him was a loud, clear warning that lack of sleep was going to kill
her.
    He didn’t speak, but Cora knew he was
examining her. She fought the urge to squirm. Her earlobes tingled,
and she imagined him examining her ear, exposed by the thin red
ribbon that swept her hair off her flushing face. She held her
glass tightly to keep self-conscious fingers from reaching up to
pull her hair forward.
    Eventually, he ducked his head, his cheek
touching hers, and said, “Somewhere private.” His breath warmed the
inside of her ear while his lips caressed her skin. “It’s crucial
to your wellbeing.”
    For a long moment, the only solid thought she
could hold onto was that he smelled amazing. She took advantage of
his nearness to draw in a great breath of his scent, trying and
failing to dissect it. The scent of him appealed to her on a deep,
primitive level. She considered pheromones as the logical
explanation for her attraction, but upon second examination,
decided she didn’t believe biology could have this intense an
effect.
    Thinking about biology helped her regain a
hold on her senses. She played his words over in her head and
almost laughed at his audacity, which was typically melodramatic
and well-suited to the crowd. She didn’t laugh, though, because she
remembered his eyes in Greg’s shop. He had looked at her as if she
were a threat to him. Cora did not want to be a threat to somebody
who very likely carried a lethal weapon.
    “I don’t know anything,” she