“Yes and no.” He dropped the accent. “I was born in Jamaica, but I grew up in Kalamazoo with my dad. He immigrated when I was three. My mom still lives in Kingston.” He tugged on one of his dreads. “And yeah, these are only a few months old. My turn?”

I nodded, braced for the inevitable question, but it wasn’t exactly what I expected.

“I see auras.” Sinclair’s gaze roved around me. “But I’ve never seen one like yours. What is it?”

“Is that a pickup line?”

He grinned. “Do you want it to be? No, I’m serious. Most people just have a little shimmer flickering around their edges. You’ve got a five-alarm fire, and I do mean a fire.” He gestured in the air, tracing invisible lines. “The flames are shot through with these twisty veins of gold. Definitely nothing I’ve seen before. And definitely not entirely human.”

“Is that where you got the idea of doing a paranormal tour?” I asked. “Because you can see auras?”

“Sort of.” Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve always been able to see things other people couldn’t, and I’ve always been drawn to Pemkowet. When I came across a sweet deal for an old tour bus on craigslist, it all came together. Are you avoiding the question?”

In fact, I was. “Hell-spawn,” I said reluctantly. “Daughter of Belphegor, minor demon and occasional incubus.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “Well, that explains the flames.”

At least he wasn’t freaked. “So why the Jamaican act? Or sort-of act?”

“You jestin’, sistah?” He rolled his eyes. “People eat that shit up, especially white people.” He pointed at the PVB building. “You think that Mrs. Brooks would be fluttering and blushing over plain old Sinclair Palmer from Kalamazoo?”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

“Everyone loves a magical Negro,” Sinclair said in a cynical tone. “Until they meet one in real life.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve never heard the term?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s a black character who uses his unique wisdom or special gift to help the white hero achieve his goal. Pretty common in popular culture. The Green Mile, The Legend of Bagger Vance, Driving Miss Daisy—”

“Ooh, ooh! Scatman Crothers in The Shining?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Cute, and a movie buff, too. We stood in the parking lot smiling awkwardly at each other. The thought occurred to me that it might be nice to take an interest in someone entirely human and almost normal for a change.

I wondered if the tail would freak him out.

“Hey, can I buy you lunch, Daisy?” Sinclair asked. “I’d love to talk about my ideas for the tour and get your input. And I’d love to hear more about your . . . um, unusual heritage.” He nodded at dauda-dagr. “Not to mention the story behind that mighty cutlass, sistah.”