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blurted upon
finding her voice. She moved away from him, trying to establish
some distance for her own sanity and, to borrow his word, her own
wellbeing. Being well meant not allowing herself to be overwhelmed
by either hormones or fear.
    “Fortunately, I don’t need information.” He
let her go. “I do need to talk to you, though.”
    Cora pulled the lace close around her
shoulders, visually skimming the crowd for somebody she could ask
for help. Every time she met somebody’s eyes, the potential rescuer
looked away. Cora realized everybody in the immediate vicinity was
watching her—watching her and the mobster—and a chill danced up her
spine. She didn’t want to be a New York City victim, assaulted in
plain view of dozens of people and left to die.
    That wouldn’t happen here. Cora knew that and
cursed the thought for even coming to her head. She was frightening
herself unnecessarily. “We’ll talk here,” she said, quelling her
fears. “There’s a balcony, isn’t there?”
    He nodded, took her hand, and pulled her away
from the spectators. Cora tried to make good use of the time it
took to get to the balcony, figuring she should have something to
say to discourage his interest or alleviate his worries that she
had overheard anything said between him and Greg. Her brain refused
to work, though; touching him sent tiny little shocks to her
sensory centers. Her body’s response to him was so intense, so
nerve-oriented, that she imagined a kinetic reaction taking place
when the grooves of her fingerprints slid against the grooves of
his fingerprints.
    Two smokers had already taken up residence on
the balcony. They were using a large potted plant, leaves wilted
and dead on the soil mixture, as an ashtray. Cora wrinkled her nose
at the acrid odor of tobacco smoke. A moment of awkward silence
punctuated her arrival with the mob boss. One of the smokers
pitched his half-smoked cigarette over the balcony and ducked
inside immediately. The other managed one more drag, red tip
flaring, before he followed suit. Not a word was spoken. Cora
hugged herself against the cold, piercing at the thirteenth floor
level, and eyed her companion. “I suppose you have a reputation as
a badass,” she said.
    “People know who I am.” He closed the door
behind the last smoker and turned to face her. “I brought you here
because the details of our conversation are less likely to make
their way into the gossip that’s already spreading like wildfire on
the other side of those doors. If you have a better suggestion, I’m
open to it.”
    He leaned against the doors, and Cora leaned
against the balcony rail. She knew he was waiting for her better
suggestion, but she didn’t have one. She suspected he knew she
didn’t have one, too, and glowered at him. “What do you want?” she
asked.
    “I want to know why you look familiar,” he
said. “I want to know what you’re doing with Cho.”
    “I’m not doing anything with him. He’s not
even here tonight.” Cora was more annoyed than frightened of him
right now, and she didn’t bother hiding the irritation in her
voice. “Is there a way this can be wrapped up in the next few
minutes? I’m not interested in pneumonia.”
    “Cora Phillips,” he said, holding up one
finger. “Sister Diane, mother Miranda, grandmother Helen,
great-grandmother Elizabeth, great-great grandmother Mary,
great-great-great grandmother Rebecca, great-great-great-great
grandmother Catherine. Margaret before Catherine and Marie before
Margaret. That’s ten.” He demonstrated with his fingers, holding up
both hands. “Ten women in the Lune tradition. You and your sister
are the first to be born two to the generation; historically, Lune
women are either only children or the only girl children born to
the generation.
    “Your sister is an active presence in New
York’s supernatural community, but you have nothing to do with
it—well, haven’t for years. Instead, you work in the