I stifled a twitch when I found a young man in the corner watching me. He was in a tux, but it had a comfortable look on him, not the stiff, uptight demeanor of the doorman or the professional dullness of the dealers. And the full glass by his hand said patron, not wait staff. His aura was so dark, it was hard to tell if it was a deep blue or deep green. A hint of demon black ran through it, and I felt a wash of embarrassment that if he was looking at me with his second sight—which I was sure he was—he could see me coated in Algaliarept’s black slime.

Leaning back with his chin on his inward-curled fingertips, he fixed his gaze on mine from across the room, evaluating. He was deeply tanned—a neat trick in midwinter—and combined with the faint highlights in his straight black hair, I guessed he was from out of state and somewhere warm. Of average build and average looks, he didn’t strike me as particularly attractive, but his confident assurance warranted a second look. He appeared wealthy, too, but who didn’t in a tux?

My eyes slid from him to the guy swilling beer, and I decided tux-trash could be done after all. And with that thought making me smile, I turned back to surfer boy.

He was still watching me, and upon seeing my smile, he matched it, tilting his head in speculation and inviting conversation. I took a breath to shake my head, then stopped. Why in hell not? I was fooling myself that Nick was coming back. And my date with Kisten was a one-night-only offer.

Wondering if his trace of black was from a demon mark, I narrowed my concentration to try to see past his unusually dark aura. As I did, the purple glow coming from the ceiling disk brightened to take on the first tinges of yellow.

The man started, his attention jerking to the ceiling. Shock marred his clean-shaven face. An abrupt call went through the room from about three different places, and at my forgotten elbow, Kisten swore as the dealer said this hand had been tampered with and that all play was suspended until he could break a new deck.

I lost my second sight completely then, as the witch manning the guest book pointed me out to a second man, clearly security by his serious lack of any emotional expression.

“Oh crap,” I swore, turning my back on the room and picking up my Dead Man’s Float.

“What?” Kisten said irately while he stacked his winnings according to color.

I winced, meeting his eyes over the rim of my glass. “I think I made a boo-boo.”

Thirteen

“What did you do, Rachel?” Kisten said flatly, stiffening as he looked over my shoulder.