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By the time they had finished the bowls of udon, Grace was yawning.

“When this is over, I’m going to write a self-help book titled

How to Build Stamina and Lose Weight Washing Dishes and Frying Stuff Eight Hours a Day,” she announced.

“You’ve been living the soft life in the Bureau of Genealogy for a year,” Petra said. “You’re out of shape.”

“I know.” Grace stretched. “But it’s like riding a bicycle. It’s all coming back to me.” She sniffed the sleeve of her shirt and wrinkled her nose. “Including the smell. Funny how the scent of fried fish permeates your clothes.”

“You get used to it,” Wayne said.

“Time to go home,” Luther said. “I’ll get the Jeep and meet you out front.”

The routine had been established after consultation with Wayne and Petra. Under the circumstances, no one thought it was a good idea for Grace to be walking back to the Sunset Surf Apartments late at night even if she was accompanied by a bodyguard. The plan was simple. Luther parked the Jeep in a nearby garage. After the Rainbow closed for the evening, Wayne and Petra stayed with Grace at Milly’s place while he went to get the vehicle.

He walked toward the garage, cane tapping on the sidewalk, and thought about the rest of the new nightly routine. Within twenty minutes he would be back at the condo with Grace and they would both tumble into bed together. Maybe they would make love if she wasn’t too exhausted. Afterward she would press close to him and fall asleep in his arms. In the morning they would sleep late. When they woke up, they would make coffee and slice some fresh papaya.

He could definitely get used to this routine. Hell, he was already so deeply into it that he did not want it to end.

There were still a fair number of people on Kuhio. At the end of the block he turned up his senses, rounded the corner and went down the narrow street toward the old hotel garage. The hotel had been closed for a couple of years. It’s upper windows were boarded up and the pool was covered. A nightclub had recently opened on what had been the first floor. It was operating at full volume tonight. The hard rock pounded into the night, accompanied by the roar of a crowd fueled by alcohol and a day at the beach.

The garage was full, thanks to the club patrons. He walked toward the far end where he had parked the Jeep, automatically watching for the flash of an aura in the dark canyons between vehicles. The deep thunder of the music spilled through every opening in the concrete walls and cascaded down the stairwell.

His leg was aching again tonight. He would have to take some more anti-inflammatory tablets when he got back to the condo. The thought made him want to snap the cane in half and hurl the pieces into the nearest trash bin. The memory of the shooter coming out of the bedroom, surprising him, flashed in his head.

Get over it. Could have been a hell of a lot worse.

He went toward the Jeep, keys out, still on alert for movement in the shadows or anything else that didn’t seem right. The garage was empty, except for the hulking shapes of the vehicles. There was nothing out of the ordinary to disturb his cop intuition or his psychic senses. So why the whisper of unease?

Thanks for giving me the willies, Ray. After all I’ve done for you.

When he got close to the SUV he used the remote to unlock it. Automatically, he gave the garage another quick survey. The concrete stairwell that led upstairs to the old hotel lobby and the entrance to the nightclub was to his right. The light was off inside. It had been on earlier when he parked.

Adrenaline scalded his veins.

The narrow beam of a penlight appeared first, prowling around the stairwell landing, illuminating the concrete steps.

The person gripping the small light rounded the corner a second later and started down the steps. In the darkened stairwell he was only a tall, lean silhouette but his aura pulsed hot with the colors of violence and raw power.

Luther concentrated, getting the pattern in focus, just in case. The man halted at the foot of the stairs. Although his aura was running red-hot, he made no move that could be interpreted as violent. There was no gun or knife in his free hand. He just stood there, aiming the flashlight at Luther’s chest.

Rogue waves spiked across the stranger’s aura. Luther sent a crushing tide of energy at him.

Nothing happened.

In the next instant he realized that his parasenses were fading fast, going blind. It was suddenly hard to make out the stranger’s pattern. That wasn’t right. He should have been able to see it clearly.

“I’m afraid you have become a problem, Mr. Malone,” the man said. “But I’m an old hand at fixing problems like you.”

The words sounded as if they came from the bottom of an abyss. They were laced with the promise of death. Luther could barely hear them. The garage was filling with a rising tide of shadows. The gathering darkness rapidly blotted up what little light came from the overhead fixtures. Now his vision was fading. A great weakness settled on him, saturating his bones.

He knew with absolute certainty that he was dying. There was pain where the pencil-slim flashlight beam struck his chest. He realized that it had to be the light that was swiftly neutralizing his aura. When your energy field went out, you went out with it.

He tried to summon the strength to move but his muscles would not obey. His will to live was a weak and flimsy weapon against the numbing power of the penlight.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

“William Craigmore. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Council.” He could barely get the word out. Fallon and Zack Jones were right. They had a spy in the highest of high places within the Society. “Nightshade.”

“Very good,” Craigmore said approvingly. “I am most certainly Nightshade, and I’ve been a member of the Governing Council for fifteen years. Sadly, I’ll be disappearing soon. I’d have preferred to stay on for a couple more years but that’s not possible now that Zack Jones is in charge. He’s simply too good, much better than his predecessor. It’s a damn shame, you know. I was almost able to prevent him from taking over the Master’s Chair but, unfortunately, things went wrong.”

Luther said nothing. He could no longer speak. He started to shake uncontrollably. His breathing was getting tight. The pain grew worse, searing his senses.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” Craigmore said. “Most men would be unconscious by now. Fallon Jones did a good job of covering up your true talent level in the files. But after all these years on the Council, I know most of the Society’s secrets, including how to bypass the J&J encryption codes. I am aware that Miss Renquist is something more than what she appears, as well. When I’ve finished with you, I will remove her. That should take care of all the dangling threads.”

Grace. He had to survive to protect her.

Grace. Somehow just thinking her name clarified his fevered mind for a few seconds.

It occurred to him that the only thing keeping him on his feet was willpower and the cane. He had a death grip on the handle, knowing that if he went down, he would not get up.

If he went down.

He allowed himself to stop fighting the effects of the beam. The last of the strength went out of his fingers. The cane clattered on the concrete. Predictably, he, too, fell hard and fast onto the unforgiving floor. Pain jolted through his bad leg but for a precious few seconds, the penlight lost its focus on his chest.

His senses slammed back with jolting force. The lights came up in the garage. The thunder of the rock music and the noise of the crowd grew loud. He could

breathe again.

He rolled under the Jeep, instinctively seeking the darkness like some night creature scurrying from the sun. Craigmore swung the penlight back and forth in an arc, trying to track and pin him again with the beam.