“Oh, yes. That’s a genuine Damian Cavalon compass. He was one of the first tunnel explorers. Navigating the catacombs was impossible with standard aboveground compasses. They didn’t function in the alien psi. He came up with the first design that could work in a hot-psi environment. There have been a lot of improvements in the technology over the years but any ghost hunter will tell you that there is nothing as reliable as an old-style Damian Cavalon compass. Most hunters still carry them as backup when they go into the Underworld.”
“I don’t see a dial or a needle. Maybe it broke off?”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. You just rez the amber and the crystals light up. True north is always bright blue. Try it.”
He focused a little energy into the disc, the amount he would have used to turn on a rez-screen or a toaster. Nothing happened. He pushed a little harder. The crystal set at north started to glow faintly. He turned slowly on his heel and watched it brighten. Excitement shot through him.
“That’s north,” he announced, pointing across the street toward the door of the Kane Gallery.
“Evidently,” Charlotte said. She smiled.
“This is great,” he exclaimed. Then reality hit him. He sighed and held out the compass to her. “But antiques are expensive. No way I can afford something like this.”
“I don’t see why we can’t work out some arrangements. Are you interested in a short-term job?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I could use someone to help me clean up this place. Dusting, sweeping, and washing the windows. The glass in the display cabinets is so grimy the customers can’t even see what’s on the shelves. Would you be interested in doing that kind of work in exchange for the compass?”
Excitement crackled through him. He closed his fingers tightly around the compass. “That’d be great. No problem. When do you want me to start?”
Charlotte looked around. “How about next week? I need to finish unpacking these crates and it would be best to complete an inventory before I start organizing and arranging the items on display.”
“Okay. See you.” He started toward the door and then froze under the crushing weight of sudden dismay. “Wait, I almost forgot. You may not want to give me the compass.”
“Why not?”
He turned around and braced himself. “I’m the one who was inside your shop last night.”
Charlotte folded her arms and looked at him with her knowing eyes. “I see.”
“I didn’t take anything, honest.”
“I believe you.”
“I just wanted to look around.”
“Next time you want to look around, try coming through the front door.”
“I shouldn’t have done it.”
“No,” she said. “Why did you?”
“I dunno. I just wanted to. Anyhow, I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Apology accepted. But don’t do it again.”
“Do you want the compass back?”
“No.” Charlotte smiled. “We have a deal. See you next week.”
“Okay.”
He ran for the door before she could change her mind.
Chapter 4
“SO, WHY HAVEN’T YOU EVER MARRIED?” SLADE ASKED.
Charlotte sipped some of the white wine and considered her answer while she watched Slade arrange the salmon on the outdoor grill. He dealt with the salmon and the fire the same way he seemed to do everything else: competently, coolly, with a minimum amount of fuss. Rex, perched on the porch railing, was watching the activity around the grill with rapt attention.
“You’re really interested?” Charlotte said finally.
“Damn curious,” Slade admitted. “Over the years, whenever I thought about you, I told myself you’d be married by now.”
“Remember me telling you that my talent had a few downsides?”
He paused, the metal spatula in midair, and looked at her. “Fifteen years ago you said something about having panic attacks when you run hot for any length of time. Didn’t you outgrow those?”
“Not entirely. I have much better control now. But I still get them if I get super jacked for too long.”
He shook his head. “Definitely a downside. But what does it have to do with the fact that you’ve never married?”
“It’s complicated.” She swallowed some more wine. “Let’s just say that, as far as professional matchmakers are concerned, I’m a difficult match.”
“So you did go to an agency?”
“Oh, sure, I went with the best, at least the best one for a member of the Arcane Society.”
“Arcanematch?”
“Yes.”
“I take it that didn’t go well?” he asked.
“I was reminded that no match is ever one hundred percent guaranteed perfect and that goes double for strong or extremely unusual talents. Turns out I fit both categories. Evidently that makes for a parapsych profile that has too many unknown or unpredictable elements.”
He frowned. “You told me that your ability was useless for anything except reading aura rainbows and tuning antiques.”
“That’s all it is good for. I happen to have a heck of a lot of talent for doing it.” Time to change the subject, Charlotte thought. “What about you? Ever try a matchmaking agency?”
“Remember that Marriage of Convenience I mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“We met through a matchmaker. The counselors said we had an eighty-two percent compatibility rating.”
“Not bad for a strong talent,” she said.
“But not exactly a slam dunk, either. Susan and I didn’t want to take any chances. We decided to try an MC first.”
“Good plan, since it turned out you two weren’t a great match. What happened?”
“Things changed,” he said. “I changed. Let’s just say I no longer fit the profile that I had registered with the agency.”
“I see.” She didn’t but it was obvious she wasn’t going to get any more information out of him. Fair enough. This was a first date, after all. There were protocols.
For some reason she’d had a hard time making up her mind about what to wear to dinner that evening. It should have been a simple decision, given the venue—a backyard barbeque. Slade’s weather-beaten cabin stood in a clearing on a tree-studded bluff overlooking a rocky beach and the dark waters of the Amber Sea. In the near distance a scattering of islands, some so small they were no more than oversized rocks, floated in the mist.
The temperature had been in the mid-eighties all day. It was just now starting to dip down into the seventies. The sun would not set for another three hours. Her wardrobe selection should have been a no-brainer. Jeans, a pullover top, and maybe a sweater to wear when she walked back to her own cottage later in the evening were the obvious choices. But she had dithered, rummaging around in her small closet far too long before choosing jeans, a dark blue pullover, and a sweater to wear on the way home.
First-date syndrome, she thought. A woman never outgrew it. She wondered if men had the same issues. If Slade had agonized over his own attire this evening, there was no evidence of it. At least he was not wearing his
