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explaining all things mystical. He’s got a real knack for it. Why would a political consultant be networking with the area pagans instead?”

    “I don’t know.” I challenged. “Why?”

    I should’ve guessed his answer. “It’s a conspiracy. Victor’s obviously set Ben up. If you hadn’t interrupted him, he could have cleaned up his fingerprints and nobody would be the wiser. So what I need to know is, what’s so important about witch chalices? Did your sister even have one? If so, what’s so special about it?”

    I hated him using the word “need” that way. We need air to breathe, water to drink, food to eat. Anything you can survive without, you don’t need.

    “No comment,” I warned.

    “Come on.” He spread his thick hands. “Katie. Sweetie. You owe me something, here.”

    The anger was creeping back, a tension in my bruised jaw, a burning in my chest. That happened pretty easily, lately. “You jumped onto my roof and broke into my home.”

    “I thought the place would be empty. Who moves right back into a murder house?”

    This time I picked up the fork. Not that I would stab him with it or anything, fun though that might be. I just needed something in my hand. “I haven’t called the cops on you. You could tell me ten times as much about the Fisher brothers, and I still wouldn’t say we’re even.”

    “You’ve got to tell me something. Don’t you want the truth to come out? Aren’t you willing to do whatever you can to bring the real killer to justice?”

    Another voice, beside me, asked, “And how, exactly, will polluting the jury pool accomplish that, Al?”

    The voice had a vaguely familiar rasp of city bluntness, and my stomach knotted as I lifted my face to see him.

    The panic hit first, instinctive and immediate. I wished I had my athame.

    I’d dropped the fork and fumbled for my butter knife before I noticed the dark-haired man’s long curls, his untucked shirt under his jacket, his obvious concern about our discussion.

    The face, the eyes—those, I’d never forget. But the concern confused me.

    Then I really recognized him.

    My recognition of Ben Fisher went way beyond him having the same face as Diana’s murderer. What I felt was a connection to him, deep down.

    I curse you, Ben Fisher.

    Oh, hell. I’d bound us together with my spell casting.

    All three of us.

Chapter 4

    B en’s deep brown eyes searched mine for a long moment, as if he felt something similar. Or maybe the bruises ooked him out. Then he seemed to realize he was staring. He dipped his attention to my makeshift excuse for a weapon.
    His brows quirked into fleeting amusement. “Kinda possessive about the cutlery, huh?” he joked, with a lopsided smile, before his gaze darted back to mine. “Hi. I’m Ben. Have…have we met? That sounds like a pickup line. I didn’t mean it that way, not that you’re someone I wouldn’t…” He shook his head, wincing and half laughing at his conversational train wreck. “You look familiar, is all. Al?”

    I didn’t take Ben’s hand, and not just because my good hand was still curled tight around the handle of a butter knife. He didn’t seem dangerous. In fact, he had the kind of unassuming keenness that used to attract me to mathletes and chess-clubbers in high school. Really. It did. I come from a blue-collar family. People with a chance at real college degrees are cool.

    But my broken hand throbbed and my jaw ached just from seeing him, all the same. Even without having met, we had more baggage between us than he could begin to guess.

    His quick expression stilled as he let his hand drop, untouched. A shrug and a head tip indicated Al. “Just be careful of this guy, okay? He’s got a good heart, but he’d sell his mom for the publicity. No offense, Al.”

    “None taken, Benny. Thanks for meeting with us.” With that, Al explained in full the coincidence of Ben Fisher’s presence. My gaze shot over to that smug bastard—what the