“I’m sorry—I no longer talk to reporters.”
She walked away and Woodhouse scurried to keep pace with her. “C’mon, Sheba. The bulls aren’t giving us anything but the same wad of chewing gum. We know Jacob Call can’t be the Pentacle Killer, unless he can off somebody from behind bars or he’s got an accomplice. Say… accomplice. That’s good.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Woodhouse.”
T. S. Woodhouse gripped Evie’s arm, and she glared at him until he was forced to remove his hand. He jerked his head at the other reporters. “These fellas get the jump, I got no story for today. I’ve been showering daisies on your Uncle Will’s museum. I’m trying to make a name for myself here, too. You understand?”
She did understand. She also understood that T. S. Woodhouse would do anything, say anything, step on anyone to get that story. It had been a mistake to get involved with him. And it was time for T. S. Woodhouse to get his comeuppance.
“Very well, Mr. Woodhouse,” Evie said. “We believe the killer is working from an ancient mystical text, the Ars Mysterium.”
“Yeah?” Woodhouse said, practically salivating at the tip. “That’s good.”
“Now, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even your publisher”—Evie bit her lip and made a show of craning her neck to be sure they weren’t overheard—“but we believe the next killing will take place tonight, on Hell Gate Bridge. You’ll want to be there with your cameraman.”
“You on the level?”
“Would I lie to such an upstanding member of the press?”
T. S. Woodhouse was weighing his ambition against her story. She could tell by the twist of his mouth.
“Thanks, Sheba,” he said at last.
“Don’t mention it—and I do mean that, Mr. Woodhouse.”
It had been a perfectly hideous day, but as she walked away from T. S. Woodhouse, Evie couldn’t help but feel a stab of satisfaction at thinking of him later, freezing in the bitter wind on Hell Gate bridge, waiting for a story that would never happen, while all the other reporters got the jump on him.
THE SAME SONG
“Dammit!” Will stubbed his cigarette hard into the ashtray. The four of them—Evie, Jericho, Sam, and Will—sat at one of the library’s long tables. Will had closed the museum early despite the crowds clamoring for tours of the supernatural led by Manhattan’s foremost expert on the occult. “He’s just going to keep killing, and we’ll always be one step behind him.”
“We don’t have to be,” Evie said. She held Will’s gaze. “I can find out what we need to know.”
“How would you do that?” Jericho asked.
“With this.” Evie placed Gabe’s rabbit’s foot on the table.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “You intend to catch a killer with a hunk of dead fur?”
“It belonged to Gabriel Johnson. It was on him the night he died.” Evie looked at Will. “Unc, I can read it. I know I can. Just give me a chance.”
“Read what?” Jericho asked.
Will glowered. “Where did you get that?”
“From a friend of his.”
Will shook his head. “It’s too dangerous, Evangeline.”
Evie leaped up from her seat and pounded a fist on the table. She’d had it with Will’s reluctance. They’d tried it his way, and all they had to show for it was another dead body. “It’s too dangerous not to at least try!”
Jericho looked to Sam, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know from nothing,” Sam said.
“There’s a killer out there and we have to stop him, any way we can,” Evie pleaded. “Please.”
“This is madness,” Will whispered. He raked a hand through his hair.
“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Jericho said.
“I’m a Diviner,” Evie said.
“Evangeline!”
“They might as well know, Unc! I’m tired of keeping it a secret.” She turned back to Jericho and Sam. “I can read objects. A ring, a letter opener, a glove—they’re more than just things to me. Give me your watch and I might be able to tell you what you had for dinner… or I could tell you your deepest secrets. It just depends.” She looked to Will again. “What do you say, Unc?”
His hands behind his back, Will walked a full lap of the library. He stopped beside Evie, looking at her for an uncomfortably long time. “We will do this in a controlled manner. Do you understand?”