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I am so excited to be writing for the new Silhouette Bombshell line!   For more information on the books in general, be sure to check out the Bombshell Authors website. But in the meantime, here’s a taste of what’s to come….

Chapter 1

     It was sensory overload. Especially for her.

     “You been here before?” shouted the bartender over the noise. He was a gruff old Vietnam-vet type with a long cowboy moustache and tattoos, but Faith didn’t sense any threat off him. In this chaos, he’d have to come at her with a switchblade before she sensed a threat.

     Maybe noise created its own kind of pseudo-silence—a benefit to partying with her new roommates that she hadn’t expected.

     “Here, New Orleans?” she shouted back from the sanctuary he’d allowed her on his side of the bar, out of the worst of the crowd. “Or here, DeLoup’s?”

     With a bottle of tequila he pointed at her green crop top which read, Tulane. Ah, proof of her previous life. He could see she’d been in New Orleans awhile now. He grinned. “DeLoup’s.”

     Faith shook her head and grinned back while, ever in motion, the bartender set some tourists up with shot-glasses, lime, and salt. She usually avoided places like DeLoup’s. She wouldn’t be here now except that she hated to back down from a challenge.

     Like she’d told her mom in that last, ugly argument before she’d moved out, she was through hiding in the shadows. Faith wanted people in her life, even if only people on the margins of society could really accept her. And people—social people—went dancing. And drinking. And….

     And other things she’d avoided.

     On that determination, she said, “It’s fun!”

     And despite her enhanced senses, inexplicably keen for as long as she could remember, it was. Fun. In a throw-you-in-a-blender-and-hit-puree kind of way.

     Jazz music bounced off walls hung with crooked neon beer signs and dented license plates. It mixed with laughter and shouted conversation—and heartbeats, the vibration of dozens of thudding heartbeats. Bare, multicolored bulbs dangled from ceiling fixtures, not quite reaching some of the bar’s intense shadows, but Faith could see into the dark almost as clearly as she could in the light. Frigid air-conditioning fought a losing battle against the hot, humid Louisiana night that poured into the bar every time the doors opened, not to mention the heat roiling off of its gyrating patrons. The aromas of beer and rum, sweet fruit drinks and fried appetizers, mingled with perfumes, colognes, breath mints… and sweating, pressing humanity.

     Like its own perfume, Faith could also smell the emotions, could hear them on intermingled heartbeats. Currents of attraction. Patches of jealousy. Pockets of lust. From more than one area she smelled the decay of unhappiness and uncertainty.

     And a whiff of… fear?

     Faith frowned. Surely she’d imagined that, amidst all the confusion. But real fear had its own scent, cold and acrid like metal. She did a quick head-count of the roommates who’d brought her here.

     Absinthe, a kohl-eyed Goth, dirty-dancing with a frat boy.

     Evan, the unassuming, sandy-haired boy-next-door type, dancing with the kind of wiry, sharp-eyed guy who never pledged a fraternity.

     Innocent Moonsong, her hair dyed far lighter than her brown skin, rings and necklaces and piercings glistening as she belly-danced in solo circles, with at least three admirers looking on.

     And of course Krystal….

     Where was Krystal?

     The bartender’s hand settling onto Faith’s bare shoulder might as well have been an exposed power line. But instead of electricity she got a hard shock of concern, curiosity, wary attraction. Now she thought he smoked more than cigarettes… took pain pills for old pains… had pins in his knees from that wreck, shrapnel from when he saw some buddy blown up—

     She stumbled back, away from the uninvited information dump, away from her own freakishness. She caught herself with an elbow on the bar’s sticky wooden surface. Jazz music swirled back in around her.

     When the bartender reached for her again—“You okay, kid?”—Faith ducked quickly back, avoiding contact.

     “I’m—” But what could she say? She was a freak, strange enough that even her mom couldn’t explain it, strange enough that the most accepting friends she’d found so far were French-Quarter psychic readers, not exactly mainstreamers themselves. That wasn’t new. But tonight, she was a freak with a missing roommate. “I have to go find my friend. I haven’t seen her come back from the restroom.”

     Which lay across a sea of dancing, mixing, pressing people.

     Not that Faith had a choice. Something was wrong.

   Like a swimmer taking one last breath before diving into freezing water, she braced herself—then stepped into the dancing crowd.

     Every time someone brushed or bumped her brought a static jolt, a blare of fragmented sound, a blast of intense scent. Like being in a pinball machine. She was the metal ball, drawn by a force as sure as gravity in one direction, while too many uncaring obstacles knocked her everywhere but. Zap. Ring. In the confusion, she got only flashes of real or imagined information.

     Someone had told her husband she was at a girlfriend’s house. Someone had lost out on a raise. Someone had just tried E for the first time.

     Faith gritted her teeth as she waded through them all, finally pushing into the moderately quieter back hallway with the payphone and the bathrooms. The door marked Filles was closed, so she knocked. “Krystal?”

     Nothing. Certainly nothing good. If she concentrated, Faith could hear a heartbeat, but there was something strange about it. Something… off.

     She tried the doorknob—if she invaded someone’s privacy, she could always claim to be drunk. The door opened barely half an inch before catching, latched with an old-fashioned hook-and-eye to go with the Old N’awlins flavor.

     It was enough for Faith’s gaze to track three things.

     The back of Krystal’s pale-blonde head, where she lay impossibly still on the linoleum.

     The faucet, pouring useless water into the pedestal sink.

     And a booted foot seeming to levitate upward off of that sink to vanish, ghostlike, into the ceiling.

     Faith jammed her hand into the crack and sliced upward, hard. The hook snapped free. Then she was in the room, skidding to her bare knees onto the gritty linoleum beside….

     Beside a human-shape that used to be her friend, one of her new roommates. No….

     Faith didn’t have to feel for a pulse. She could hear Krystal’s lifelessness in her silence—no heartbeat, no breath. She could see the purpling stripe, like a gory scarf, around her friend’s still throat. She could smell death amidst the usual toilet smells, a stagnant scent, along with the remnants of that cold, metallic fear and….

     And something that turned her stomach even more violently than this violent death. That scent was also an emotion, but one she’d never caught before. And it came from—

     She looked up at where the booted foot had vanished—presumably with a killer attached?—and at a white ceiling panel that hadn’t been replaced quite straight in its grid.

     No time to think. If she stalled on the enormity of what must have just happened in here, like a normal human would, any chance she had of identifying Krystal’s killer would vanish.

     Good thing Faith wasn’t normal.

     Springing to her feet, she kicked the door shut and jammed the hook back into place—protect the evidence, right? Then she scrambled onto the sink’s edge and rose, stretching upward for the metal runner that supported the drop-ceiling. She had to go on tiptoe, precariously balanced on porcelain, to wedge her fingers around the metal bar. The I-shaped runner gouged cruelly into the flesh of her hands. Wishing she’d done more chin-ups at the gym, Faith had to make-do with swinging herself once, twice.

     On her third try, she kicked a second panel loose and caught that runner behind her knees. Now she hung like a scantily-dressed U, shoulders straining, but it was enough. Stepping her feet closer to her hands with awkward lurches, glad she’d worn running shoes instead of heels, she edged her knees close enough to give her leverage.

     She wedged her head and arms up past the wood-fiber panel into the narrow crawlspace of the drop-ceiling.

     She heard a slither of movement, rapidly retreating.

     Crawl was the right word for this suspended space, Faith thought, wriggling quickly in after the fleeing suspect. The drop ceiling, a precarious collection of acoustical tiles balanced on an exposed framework of metal channels, lay barely a foot below the wooden joists of the upper roof. Her view up here was obstructed not just by the darkness—which she could handle—but by lengths of taut hanger wire and aluminum air-conditioning ducts swathed in paper-wrapped, pink fiberglass insulation. But she could hear him—statistics told her it would be a him, as surely as did instinct and smell. She twisted in the direction of the tell-tale scuffling and caught a glimpse of retreating boot soles, barely ten feet ahead of her.

     Faith launched herself after them, not on hands and knees but on thighs and forearms, her bare tummy and legs rasping across years of accumulated dirt. Her neck ached with the strain of keeping an eye on her quarry as she wriggled after him. The ceiling panels felt horribly unstable beneath her. They probably were, those yard-by-yard squares, barely an inch thick, suspended from the joists by mere wire. From beneath her she caught wafts of jazz music, shouted conversation, blurred heartbeats and breaths and mingling emotions. But ahead of her—

     She heard the strangely distinct rhythm of her quarry’s pounding heart and breathed in his smell as it faded from that strange, stomach-turning scent to surprise and distress at her pursuit.

     Not surprisingly, he was bigger than her. The crawlspace was even tighter for him. It was slowing him down.

     Faith was maybe eight feet behind him now. She dragged herself closer, digging with her elbows, scrabbling with her arched feet.

     One of his shoulders glanced off a metal duct.

     Now she was barely six feet behind him, putting her hips into it.

     He had to duck to avoid a low-hanging swag of electric wiring that had pulled free of its staples.

     Now she was barely four feet behind him. She caught her hand on an exposed nail and barely noticed the slice of pain. She kept crawling.

     He stopped. Why? Three feet. Two—

     Faith reached out her hand, ready to grab the killer by the ankle if that’s what it took. She doubted she could capture him alone, but she’d come to know evidence. She could damn well tear some vital clue off him.

     But with the appearance of a sudden square of light—he vanished.

     At least, that’s what it looked like. Even as she gaped, Faith realized that the man had punched out another ceiling tile and dove, head-first, into whatever lay below.

     Wriggling closer, she peered over the edge of the runner—and saw metal racks, industrial-sized bottles, cardboard boxes. Storeroom. She pivoted onto her hip, her shoulder brushing a joist above her as she rolled on her side, and dropped her feet down first. Then she levered herself the rest of the way through the ceiling and let go.

     With a light thud, she landed into a crouch on the floor below.

     The storeroom was empty—of everything but storage, anyway. Faith shouldered quickly out the door….

     And found herself behind the bar again. The man she’d been after could be anybody amid the milling, churning crowd now. And the bartender wasn’t there to say who’d just appeared from the storeroom.

     He’d apparently been drawn away by the shrill screaming coming from the bathrooms.

     With a deep breath, Faith dove back into the crowd, an overly-aware pinball trying to go one inexorable direction.

     “You touch anything?” demanded the first officer on the scene, a tall brown patrolman named Lee. He’d responded not to the bartender’s 9-1-1 call but to one of DeLoup’s customers rushing out onto Bourbon Street to fetch help.

     “Of course I did,” admitted Faith. “But I’ve contained the scene since.”

     The shrieking CPA who’d found Krystal had not pushed the door hard enough to force the hook-and-eye latch a second time. Apparently, when she saw in, she hadn’t wanted to.

     Faith had gotten there just as the bartender shouldered his way through—in time to keep him from compromising evidence.

     The patrolman, after an unsteady look at poor Krystal’s blue-tinged face and a grateful check of Faith’s I.D. badge, agreed to leave the bathroom to her while he worked crowd control.

     “Not like you can go anywhere,” he said—as if the ceiling panels weren’t gaping like missing teeth above the still-running sink.

     One down. But Faith wasn’t worried about patrolmen.

     “Did you throw up?” asked a kindly EMT not ten minutes later, about the running water. A good-looking guy named Steadman, he was careful to step only where Faith had indicated he should. The likelihood that the crime-scene investigators could pick up a single distinct boot print off the chaos of a bathroom floor were low, especially with something gritty, like sand, crunching underfoot. Faith should know. But it didn’t hurt to be careful.

     “No—I found the water that way.”

     “Did you check for the victim’s pulse?”

     “She was already dead when I felt her wrist.” Which was technically true. Faith had wanted to leave a fingerprint, just in case. Her mother had stressed paranoia about Faith’s freakishly acute senses since childhood. Leaving proof of an unnecessary assessment had seemed a better idea than trying to explain that she could hear the absence of her roommate’s heartbeat.

     Steadman crouched easily beside the corpse and eyed the straight-line bruising around its neck and the welts where—if Faith had to guess—Krystal had gouged her own throat trying to dig away the killer’s garrote. Steadman, too, seemed to check for the absent pulse more out of procedure than practicality. “She looks familiar. Didn’t she read tarot in Jackson Square?”

     Faith stiffened, concerned he would recognize more than Krystal. Not that Faith had been on the Square for awhile, now. She’d only been… experimenting. It had been a failed experiment.

     “Yes,” she said. “She did.”

     He swore under his breath—and stood. “Well, ma’am, this is one for the cops, the coroner, and the crime scene unit.”

     Two down. But Faith wasn’t worried about EMTs, either.

     Again she found herself alone with the body. She looked into Krystal’s staring eyes, not quite able to reconcile the corpse with the tall, vivacious young woman who’d offered to style Faith’s hair before they’d headed out that night. Krystal. It had always been one of Faith’s favorite daydreams, living with a bunch of other women. Roommates, sisters, dorm-mates at some kind of boarding school—no matter the details, she’d always imagined it would be like an endless slumber party. Like… belonging. This new apartment—rather, her newly-rented half room in a very old apartment—was her first real effort toward that.

     But slumber parties usually didn’t include murder.

     Now she wished she’d accepted Krystal’s offer, despite her dislike of being touched… and of Krystal’s over-reliance on hairspray. Krystal had been teaching her breathing and relaxation techniques to control her freakish oversensitivity. They’d been friends, though maybe not as close as normal people got. Faith wasn’t sure she knew how to get close to other people. Now she’d lost any chance to get closer to this one.

     She hadn’t expected losing people to hurt like this.

     Still, the worst part about standing here in the bathroom, alone with Krystal, wasn’t that guilt. It wasn’t the eerie stillness—a now blatant absence of jazz music, laughter, and shouted conversations so that the simple gurgle of water running down the drain became deafening. It wasn’t even being this close to a dead person.

     The worst part was the lingering… smell was what Faith could best call it, but that wasn’t wholly correct. A perverted sexuality hung in the air, part musk, part heat. It had been left by the killer and this horrible, irrevocable thing he’d done. It smelled like power. Dominance.

     Evil.

     More than the corpse’s presence, that atmosphere of evil twisted deep in her stomach.

     “So,” drawled someone loudly. Though the man in the open-fronted coat didn’t throw the door open hard enough to bounce it off the wall, he might as well have, the way Faith jumped at his arrival. “What do we know?”

     Damn. Not only had the detectives arrived—they included Roy Chopin.

     Faith had been around Chopin only a handful of times. He was a rangy man with a rolling walk, blunt and expressive. He wore his brown hair styled back from his long face, to keep it out of his tired eyes, and his mouth alternated between threatening and mocking, and his jaw looked like a dare. His sheer physicality generally made her uncomfortable, even without touching. He didn’t have to touch. A cop in every sense of that word, Chopin seemed to expect the whole world to get out of his way. To judge by his cocky attitude, the world usually did.

     Tonight, though, his presence felt welcome as it washed over the crime scene like a rainstorm clearing out the gutters of Bourbon Street. Imagining all this ugliness through his detached gray eyes demoted Krystal’s death from a scene of horror to a mere shame and, more to the point, a puzzle to be solved.

     Faith grasped gratefully at that air of detachment. She would return to the horror soon enough, after all. And she would need all her wits. Where Chopin went…

     Well, when his partner arrived, she’d be three down. The detectives were the ones who had worried her all along.

     For good reason.

     In the meantime, Chopin was already looking impatient.

     “This is Krystal Tanner,” she reported. “I found her like this at about ten-fifteen. Someone was climbing out through the ceiling. I went after him, but he had a pretty good head start, and… what?” Chopin had shaken his head, his tired eyes widening and his mouth shifting to mocking.

     “You went after him?” he demanded.

     “Yes.”

     Now he looked her up and down. She sensed the way he saw her as surely as she could read his perusal of the scene. She was a blond-haired, pony-tailed coed with full lips and unusual green-gold eyes. Her tanned arms and legs, bared by the miniskirt and crop top, had seemed a better choice before her crawl through the filthy roof space.

     Her chin came up under the challenge of his gaze. “Yeah.”

     Chopin leaned closer, faux conspiratorial. “And why would you do an idiot thing like that?”

     Well, duh. “Because the alternative would have been not to go after him?”

     He grinned as he straightened, fishing a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Krystal Tanner,” he muttered, making a note. “Ten-fifteen. You’re not on the force, so how is it I know you?”

     She was surprised he’d remember her, even vaguely. Then again, powers of observation went back to his cop-ness. “I’m an assistant evidence technician for the city. Faith Corbett.”

     She fisted her right hand, hoping he wouldn’t want to shake. The man was intense enough without risking direct contact.

     “Yeah, that’s it.” He nodded and, to her relief, kept his own hand busy taking notes. “You’re one of Boulanger’s dayshift, working the desk, right? Sometimes you make pickups and drop offs at the station. So Corbett, how is it you know the deceased?”

     Poor Krystal. One minute she’d been dancing, drinking, celebrating life. Then she’d headed for the ladies’ room and… God. The deceased.

     “She’s my roommate.”

     Chopin stopped writing and angled his wide gaze back to her, brows furrowed. “Oh. I’m… uh….”

     Why was it some men had trouble expressing even the most conventional courtesy, lest it betray some emotion? Faith saved him the effort. “Thanks.”

     “So Bernie, you went charging after this killer…?”

     Had he just called her Bernie? Unwilling to get off topic, Faith repeated the story as quickly as she could without looking too suspicious, increasingly aware of him studying her as he listened and took notes. She felt as if he could see every hair on her arms, every piece of grit embedded into her tummy, every scrape on her knees. It wasn’t sexual—there was a corpse at their feet, after all. Well… not any more sexual than any man staring at a woman’s bare tummy, anyway. But such intense scrutiny made her uncomfortable.

     Like he could maybe see just how weird she was.

     “You didn’t get a good look at him?” Chopin demanded, when she finished. At least he hadn’t interrupted her.

     “Just the bottom of his feet.”

     “And you didn’t ask anybody if they saw him leave the storeroom?” His mouth had gone back to threatening; his questions were starting to feel like little shoves of energy.

     “No, everyone was distracted by finding Krystal.”

     “And how was your relationship with the vic?”

     Faith’s mouth fell open. “Why are you questioning me as if… oh.” But she knew the answer to that, too. “The first person on the scene’s always the first suspect, right?”

     “Yeah.” Chopin didn’t even bother to apologize for his suspicions. But he did include her in another mocking grin. “Nothing personal, hon. It’s one of those hard truths, like ‘everybody lies.’ Statistics would put the odds on either you or her boyfriend-slash-husband.”

     “She didn’t have a boyfriend or a husband.”

     “Could I see your hands, please?” Shove.

     Faith spread her bare palms for him. Only when she felt his interest spike—a minute change of his temperature, sharp inhale through his teeth—did she notice the pink lines where she’d pulled herself up through the ceiling, the bleeding cut from that exposed nail. “Oh…” she whispered.

     For a moment she felt dizzy with the very real possibility that she might be charged with this crime. So much for keeping a low profile!

     “Don’t sweat it. If you’d done the deed, you’d have lines on the sides of your hands, too. Here—” To her relief, he indicated where he meant with his pen, not his finger. “And here. Besides, she’s fashion-model tall—pushing six feet? I’m no M.E., but I’m betting the ligature marks on her neck would be a lot lower if you did her. Unless you somehow made her kneel first, which how could you without imminent threat, and I don’t see anyplace you could’ve hidden a gun. Or much of a knife. Nice shirt, there.”

     “You’re smarter than you look,” said Faith, fully aware it was her own way of shoving back.

     “‘Cause of my fashion sense, or ‘cause I’m not hauling you down the station yet?” Detective Chopin looked less exhausted as he eyed her. “Usually I’m the brawns of the outfit. Right, Butch?”

     Strike three.

     “Now Roy,” demanded Chopin’s sweet, trustworthy partner from the doorway. Here stood the man whose arrival Faith had feared even beyond the slap-in-the-face energy of the younger Roy. “What are you doing harassing this here helpful citizen? Sugar over vinegar, son. Sugar over vinegar. How do you do, miss? I am Detective Sergeant Butch Jefferson. I am most terribly sorry to have to meet you under such clearly distressing circumstances, and I apologize for my partner’s appalling lack of manners.”

     “He’s the Good Cop,” muttered Chopin amiably, still taking notes. Which made him what?

     Butch, who had over twenty years on his thirty-ish partner, extended both a genuine smile and his worn brown hand. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. There was no way Faith could refuse to take the latter. Not without rousing suspicion and requiring more conversation which—around Butch Jefferson, anyway—she wanted even less than touching.

     With a determined smile, she allowed Butch to envelope her hand in his.

     It wasn’t anywhere near as unsettling as touching his partner would have been. Butch’s personal energy was slow and easy, like the Mississippi in the summertime. The flashes of possible information that accompanied his touch--widowed, volunteered with Big Brothers, loved beer and boiled crawfish--he released it all so freely, it didn’t carry the unsettling jolt so many people’s did.

     “Faith Corbett,” she said—the first time she’d ever given this particular cop her real name. Please don’t know me.

     “From evidence,” added Bad Cop—and Jefferson’s partner took over most of the talking. The older detective didn’t seem to realize he and Faith had spoken before, much less that it had had nothing to do with her job with the crime scene unit.

     Then again, she’d chosen Butch Jefferson last year specifically because he didn’t have a terribly suspicious nature—not for a homicide detective, anyway. She’d always used a fake accent, the dozen-or-so times she’d telephoned him. And she’d given him a fake name, Madame Cassandra. But the information she’d passed on, as Detective Jefferson’s anonymous contact with the psychic community, had always been real.

     As long as the information stayed anonymous, Faith could remain useful. But if he or anyone else ever learned the tips came from her….

     Well, either he’d see her like Chopin had—young and blond and thus somehow unreliable—or he’d see her like the few other people who had learned her secret.

     Freak.

     Worse, they would want to know how she did it. And that, not even Faith could tell them.

     She honestly didn’t know what she was.

     But whatever she was, keeping quiet about it was one of the few things her nervous mother had gotten right. Look what happened to Krystal.

     The thought caught Faith by surprise. How could Krystal’s murder have anything to do with the tarot reader’s special abilities?

     She stiffened, increasingly aware of the gurgling drain beneath Roy Chopin’s surprisingly accurate narrative of her night. It would keep running until the nightshift for the crime-scene unit arrived.

     Running water?

     She might only do glorified clerical work for the crime scene unit, so far. She might only be an assistant crime scene technician. But she knew the water had to mean something.

     What?

* * * *

     That last time hadn’t been a fluke, after all.

     He stood for what may have been hours, too powerful to tire of it, relishing how helpless the so-called authorities looked. Patrolmen had come and gone, as had an ambulance. Now the photographers and the crime scene investigators, the nightshift, had arrived. But He waited.

     He wanted to see the detectives leave as ignorant as when they’d arrived. Stupid, arrogant suits. He wanted to gloat.

     When finally they emerged, a younger man with an old black partner, they didn’t seem as helpless as He’d hoped. The younger one looked dusty enough to have been clambering around the crawlspace over the ceiling.

    “Let me or Roy get you a cab now, Miss Faith,” He heard the black man say. “Gang activity’s gotten worse, not far north of here. No need for you to take chances.”

     “No,” said the girl, all but backing away. “Really. My roommates will walk with me. We’ll be safe together.”

     The trio who shuffled nearer, red-eyed and lost, looked as if they needed more protection then they would provide. Even the man among them had the posture of a girl.

     Those three looked familiar—from Jackson Square.

     More psychics?

     Even as he thought that, as his breath fell shallow and his heartbeat sped and his groin tightened, the one called Miss Faith suddenly turned her head. Her unnerving green gaze raked across the remaining onlookers as if she knew what she was looking for.

     He leaned back just enough to hide behind the shoulders of some good ol’ boy. When He dared look again, she’d gone. She seemed to deliberately ignore the detectives staring after her. She was too busy dividing her attention between her friends and the street around them, like a little blonde bodyguard.

     He dared breathe again after they turned a corner. More than one psychic there, for sure.

     The kind of people with power to spare.

     A few more like tonight, and even the Master could no longer stop Him.

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