We followed Natalie to the kitchen, a large room that was cut off from the rest of the living space, to pick up tea on our way to the living room. I distracted myself by looking at her crown moldings in an effort not to say something rude, like hurry up and tell us already. Claude revealed no impatience in his laid-back attitude and easy smile.

His attitude changed the second Natalie told us her findings.

“What do you mean, nothing?” he asked, voice strained.

“Nothing to indicate the brand was psychically altered, other than the cleaning, which as you know didn’t remove the psychometric imprints. At least not completely,” Natalie said, the diminutive woman not the least bit rattled by Claude’s obvious shock.

Claude sank onto Natalie’s couch and rubbed his face with his hands. “That isn’t possible.”

I’d never thought I’d hear a man like Claude Desmarais with desperation on his tongue, even just a hint, and I didn’t like it. “There could be an explanation, Claude.”

He looked up at me and the hope in his gaze twisted my heart.

“I’m not saying that it’s likely—his face coming up in the initial vision means he definitely made an impression on the victim. But we don’t know exactly what happened. I need more time with the brand.” I glanced at Natalie and she offered me a small smile. “I could even start now.”

Natalie set down the brand on the coffee table. “I’ll just get us some drinks, then. Dealing with murders is a bit easier with alcohol. Scotch for you, Claude?”

He nodded without looking at her, his attention locked on the brand.

“Agent Davis?”

I opened my mouth to tell her I’d take a soda, but changed my mind. If I was going to handle that brand before we left, I’d need a drink after. “Beer if you have it.” Hell, what time was it? Noon, maybe? My psychologist would love this—it would open up a whole new can of worms.

“Remember to keep an open mind?” I didn’t mean for it to be a question, but my tone lilted anyway. I wanted to go and give Claude a hug, a kiss, offer him comfort. God, I was a world-class masochist.

He nodded, offering me a grateful smile. I sat on one of the oversized chairs that surrounded the coffee table and hyperventilated. Then I gestured toward the brand. Claude picked it up and held it out to me.

“Thank you,” he said softly, then dropped the brand into my outstretched hand.

Fear rolled over me, filling my throat with bile. Luc Chevalier’s face flashed, and it intermingled with the branding iron in a most disturbing way. He was yelling something—silent to my ears—and another man came into view. The background was clouded, but I thought I could make out earth beneath my feet. I tore my gaze away, trying to drag it back to the men. But it caught on my arm. On my hand.

On my webbed fingers and graying hand. No, not graying. But touched with fur.

I heard the bang of the brand hitting the floor, and I forced air into my lungs. I blinked away the black spots that pinged my vision. My hand came into focus first, curled like a claw forced open. A defense mechanism that psychometrists’ bodies seemed to act out instinctually. One that kept us from recycling through visions, in case we couldn’t muster the wherewithal to drop the object during the brief moments between images.

My hand, what was it about my hand?

The vision rushed back, bits and pieces that made no sense. My mind struggled to force them into a linear time line, into some kind of order. A square peg and a round hole, unfortunately.

Someone gripped my arm; I could feel that much again. And I blinked dumbly at Claude for a couple of seconds. The situation rushed back to me and I pulled away, averting my eyes from the strangely concerned expression on his face.

Natalie set a beer on the table in front of me and then reached down and retrieved the brand from where I’d dropped it on her floor. I wondered if she’d seen me. Psychometry visions weren’t pretty things, although I mostly sat stiffly without breathing, or so I was told. And I guessed that wasn’t so bad.

“A selkie.”

“What?” Claude hadn’t moved from where he kneeled next to me, although he kept his hands to himself since I’d pulled away.

“The man who imprinted on that brand. He was a selkie. I saw his hand tied down.” I touched my own hand, my mind still half expecting to see it changing from a human to a seal. “Webbed fingers—fur just peeking through.”

“He was kept in mid-transformation?” Natalie asked.

I shook my head, then regretted the motion as pain shot through my skull. “Not necessarily. Imprints aren’t linear, and they aren’t perfect. It could be that he shifted entirely, but that the psychic imprint happened during the shift.”

“Wow. How do you ever figure out anything useful from your visions?” Natalie asked.

I flinched.

“Apparently she does just fine, Natalie. Have you seen her closure rate?” Claude cut in.

I stared at the vampire. He hadn’t just come to me because of my reputation and our history—he’d done some serious digging beforehand. Not that it wasn’t a reasonable step—a smart move, for an investigator. No wonder he’d known I was on medical leave.

The small part of me that hoped he’d come because he’d felt a connection to me withered.

And despite my anger at myself for even entertaining such an idea, it was disappointing.

Natalie looked embarrassed, and she shouldn’t have. Sure, her comment wasn’t tactful, but she hadn’t intended any harm. Hell, I was surprised myself when I was able to get a particularly confusing vision to make sense eventually.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said to Natalie. I couldn’t deal with Claude right now. Our kiss was too fresh, and it tugged on very old wounds that I didn’t have the strength or the gumption to open right now. “Truth is, psychometrists don’t always find useful evidence from visions, and we can’t always make sense of them.” I picked up the beer and took a long drink, then coughed a little. The dark beer was a little stronger than what I normally drank. “Like the vamp said, I usually do come up with something helpful. But not with just one vision. Or two. Usually, it takes a week or two of consistent visions to make any sense out of them.”

“That sounds…unpleasant.”

I forced a smile. “It’s fine.”

Natalie still seemed embarrassed, but she also seemed as intent to forget it as I was. “So where does this leave you?” she asked Claude.

The heat of his gaze hit me for a brief moment, then his eyes were back on Natalie. “I’ve been told I need to be more open-minded. I suppose an open-minded person might start digging through police files.”

I took another drink of the beer to hide my smile from the vampire and the witch.

“You gave me selkie with ‘man hands.’ There are only two adult male selkies who have disappeared in the last fifteen years in the area. The most recent was investigated by the succubus, Marisol. Talking to her is safer than digging through the file. Requesting it will leave a trace.”

“Yadda yadda. I got it. No trace, no one putting two and two together.” We walked between the short granite columns that protected the building from car bombs and angry drivers. I blew a puff of warm air into my hands. So damn cold.

We walked through the revolving doors into the courthouse, pausing briefly to get through security, before cutting through the marble-lined halls to make our way to the cafeteria. I was already uncomfortable and we hadn’t even seen her yet. “Are you sure we should be bothering her?”

“Marisol’s in court all week for a case. She has to eat, right?”

Claude cut through the crowd to a small table in the back. The succubus took my breath away. Succubi had that effect on people. That I suddenly felt like a jerk wasn’t succubus related.

I had never made such an ass of myself as I had toward Marisol Whitman. Granted, she’d forgiven me after I’d been a total bitch when I found her and my ex-partner in bed together, but I still felt like an ass every time I saw her. But she was a good cop, and my bad behavior in the past and discomfort in the present wasn’t good enough reason to avoid talking to her about this case.

Claude pulled out the chair next to me, directly across from Marisol.

“You sounded so mysterious on the phone.” Marisol leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“I have to sound mysterious. How will I keep my reputation intact if I don’t?” Claude smiled, but worry prevented his eyes from following suit. “I just have some questions about an old case you were on. Might be nothing, but I need to keep this between the three of us for now.”

Marisol frowned. “All right. What case?”

“A selkie disappeared last year, a man named Lawrence Coates.”

“Oh, yes. I remember the case. Took two days for the family to even tell us he was a selkie. Case was turned over to the PNU then.”

“What else can you tell us about it?”

She shrugged, perfect shoulders sliding under her long, blond hair. “Not much to tell. Not a local, but had some business in the area. His wife called it in when he never went back to their hotel after a dinner meeting. He was some kind of big player in selkie politics. That’s why they were so concerned about letting his otherworlder status out.”

I started. “I didn’t even realize selkies were organized enough for politics.”

“You and me both. But there are a lot of them, so I guess it makes sense. We just don’t see them much here since we’re so far from the ocean.”

“Selkies have very little hierarchy,” Claude said. “Only the royal family is considered above the others. You must have had some sort of selkie prince on your hands.”

“Wait, what? Selkies have a royal family?”

I was glad that Marisol voiced the question, so I didn’t have to. I’d never heard of such a thing.

“It’s not common knowledge.” Claude grimaced. “It’s not even uncommon knowledge, and the selkies would prefer to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”