"I haven't found anything to argue about yet."

"Well, he's the one we have to get to. They haven't picked up Parkland yet, but I figure they will. He's not a pro. He's just some jerk who tried to find a quick way to pay off a debt and keep his kneecaps intact. He won't be much of a lead when they find him, but he'll be something. I have to figure the feds will keep him under wraps."

"So far your figuring seems flawless. Take the bottle and sit."

She did, curling her legs under her on the corner bench by the window. "It's not likely the feds would cut a PI much of a break."

"No." Sebastian set platters down on the table, pasta curls tanged with tomatoes and herbs, the wine-braised chicken, thick slabs of crusty bread.

"They'd cut you one. They owe you."

Sebastian served Mel himself. "Perhaps."

"They'd give you a copy of Parkland's statement when they nab him. Maybe even let you talk to him. If you said you were still interested in the case, they'd feed you information."

"Yes, they might." Sebastian sampled the meal and found it excellent. "But am I still interested?"

She clamped a hand over his wrist before he could slice off another bite of tender chicken. "Don't you like to finish what you start?"

He lifted his eyes to hers and looked deep, so deep that her fingers trembled once before they slid away. "Yes, I do."

Uneasy, she broke a piece of bread. "Well, then?"

"I'll help you. I'll use whatever connections I may have."

"I appreciate it." Though she was careful not to touch him again, her lips curved, her eyes warmed. "Really. I'll owe you for this."

"No, I don't think so. Nor will you when you hear my conditions. We'll work together."

She dropped the bread. "Look, Donovan, I appreciate the offer, but I work alone. Anyway, your style—the visions and stuff—it makes me nervous."

"Fair enough. Your style—guns and stuff—makes me nervous. So, we compromise. Work together, deal with each other's… eccentricities. After all, it's the goal that's important, isn't it?"

She mulled it over, poking at the food on her plate. "Maybe I did have an idea that would work better as a couple—a childless couple." Still wary, she glanced up at him. "But if we did agree to compromise, for this one time, we'd have to have rules."

"Oh, absolutely."

"Don't smirk when you say that." With her mind clicking away, she dug into the meal. "This is good." She scooped up another bite. "Really good. It didn't look like all that much trouble."

"You flatter me."

"No, I mean…" She laughed and shrugged and ate some more. "I guess I thought fancy food meant fancy work. My mother worked as a waitress a lot, and she'd bring home all this food from the kitchen. But it was mostly in diners and fast-food joints. Nothing like this."

"Your mother's well?"

"Oh, sure. I got a postcard last week from Nebraska. She travels around a lot. Itchy feet."

"Your father?"

The faintest of hesitations, the briefest shadow of sadness. "I don't remember him."

"How does your mother feel about your profession?"

"She thinks it's exciting—but then, she watches a lot of TV. What about yours?" Mel lifted her glass and gestured. "How do your parents feel about you being the wizard of Monterey?"

"I don't think I'd term it quite that way," Sebastian said after a moment. "But, if they think of it, I imagine they're pleased that I'm carrying on the family tradition."

Mel huffed into her wine. "What are you, like a coven?"

"No," he said gently, unoffended. "We're like a family."

"You know, I wouldn't have believed any of it if I hadn't… Well, I was there. But that doesn't mean I swallow the whole deal." Her eyes flashed up to his, careful and calculating. "I did some reading up, about tests and research and that kind of thing. A lot of reputable scientists believe there's something to psychic phenomena."

"That's comforting."

"Don't be snide,'' she said, shifting in her seat. "What I mean is, they know they don't completely understand the human mind. That's logical. They look at EEG patterns and EMGs and stuff. You know, they study people who can guess what's on the face of a card without lifting it up, things like that. But that doesn't mean they go in for witchcraft or prophesies or fairy dust."

"A little fairy dust wouldn't hurt you," Sebastian murmured. "I'll have to speak to Morgana about it."

"Seriously," Mel began.

"Seriously." He took her hand. "I was born with elvin blood. I am a hereditary witch who can trace his roots back to Finn of the Celts. My gift is of sight. It was not asked for or demanded, but given. This has nothing to do with logic or science or dancing naked in the moonlight. It is my legacy. It is my destiny."

"Well," Mel said after a long moment. And again: "Well." She moistened her lips and cleared her throat. "In these studies they tested things like telekinesis, telepathy."

"You want proof, Mel?"

"No—Yes. I mean, if we are going to work together on this thing, I'd like to know the extent of your… talent."

"Fair. Think of a number from one to ten. Six," he said before she could open her mouth.

"I wasn't ready."

"But that was the first number that popped into your mind."

It was, but she shook her head. "I wasn't ready." She closed her eyes. "Now."

She was good, he thought. Very good. Right now she was using all her will to block him out. To distract her, he nibbled on the knuckle of the hand he still held. "Three."

She opened her eyes. "All right. How?"

"From your mind to mine." He rubbed his lips over her fingers. "Sometimes in words, sometimes in pictures, sometimes only in feelings that are impossible to describe. Now you're wondering if you had too much wine, because your heart's beating too fast, your skin is warm. Your head's light."

"My head's fine." She jerked her hand from his. "Or it would be if you'd stay out of it. I can feel…"