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midnight and the streets were empty.
    "Hey, it went okay, didn't it?" Mason said for what must have been the fiftieth time. "It really went okay."
    "It went better than okay," Guinevere said, assuring him. "You heard Theresa. She's ecstatic. You're all set, Mason."
    "Are you kidding? This is just the beginning. There's no such thing as being all set in this business. Every new painting gets judged against all the others you've done. But at least I've proven I can sell. Dad never thought I would get this far, you know."
    "Didn't he?"
    "Hell, no, he—" Mason broke off abruptly. "Forget it. I don't want to talk about him. Not tonight."
    "How about witches, Mason?" Guinevere asked gently. "Want to talk about them?"
    He stopped short and stared at her under a street lamp. "Witches! You mean that stupid pentagram business?"
    "Mason, that man, Henry Thorpe, said something about your once having been involved in some kind of occult group. And that damage to your painting last night looked pretty vicious. If there's any possibility of a connection, don't you think you ought to tell the police?"
    Mason muttered something that sounded quite disgusted. "Thorpe. God knows what he was running on tonight. He hasn't been able to paint decently for almost a year and it's eating him alive. What did he tell you about witches?"
    "Nothing much. Just that for a while a couple of years ago you'd been mixed up with some sort of odd group."
    Mason shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Yeah, it was odd, all right. But it wasn't dangerous. Bunch of folks sitting around playing games with stuff they learned out of old books. For a while it was just a friendly group that met to get a little high on some homegrown agricultural products and have a few laughs. An excuse to party. A couple of the members started taking things too seriously, though, and I got out. So did almost everyone else. The partying was getting in the way of my painting."
    Guinevere frowned, considering. "You don't think there's any possibility of a connection between what happened last night and that group?"
    Mason shook his head impatiently and resumed walking. "Not likely. Most of the people I knew who were part of the crowd have long since dropped out. Like I said, it was just an excuse to party. I haven't seen any of the original group for months."
    "Where did you do all this, er, partying?"
    "One of the members, a guy named Sandwick, had inherited an old house. Mostly we used it. Had a spooky old basement that was soundproof. Neighbors couldn't hear us if we got too loud, not that the neighbors would have cared. It wasn't exactly a high-class area."
    "Where was it located?"
    "Near Capitol Hill." Mason sounded totally uninterested. "Let's talk about something more to the point."
    "Such as?"
    "Such as your sister, Carla."
    Guinevere smiled. "As I told you, she's an organizer. She used to be an executive secretary, but lately she's been working for me."
    "Is she free?"
    "No, actually, she can be quite expensive," Guinevere remarked, remembering certain incidents from her sister's recent past.
    "Come on, Gwen, you know that's not what I meant."
    "All right. She's not involved with anyone special at the moment. Does that answer your question?"
    "It does."
    "There's just one other thing, Mason," Guinevere went on slowly. "Please excuse the big-sister spiel, but I'm afraid it comes with the territory. I am her big sister and I don't want her hurt. She went through a bad experience a few months back. She's over it now, but I wouldn't want anyone undoing all the progress she's made." Carla's "progress" had cost a bundle in therapy, Valium prescriptions, and patience. It had also led directly to Guinevere's first meeting with Zachariah Justis. That first encounter had been very unnerving. It had taught her right from the start that Zac could be quite ruthless.
    Mason grinned. "You do sound like a big sister. But don't worry. I'll take good care of Carla. If she'll let