“A witness? Working girl?”

“No, a supernatural who haunts-and hunts-in that neighborhood.”

Nick leaned forward. “I thought you were the only vampire in Toronto.”

“This isn’t a vamp. Or a were. She’s…well, we’re not quite sure what she is, but-”

A cell phone rang. At the first note, Jaime, Zoe, Nick, Antonio and I all jumped, ready to grab ours. Clay rolled his eyes and muttered something about electronic leashes. As the tone began, I said, “That’s mine.”

“Never even got the damned thing back in your pocket.”

“It’s…oh, it’s Anita Barrington.”

Clay growled and went to pluck the phone from me, but I pulled it out of his reach.

“Don’t answer-” he began.

Too late. A minute later, I hung up.

“Let me guess,” Jaime said. “She has urgent information and wants to come over right away.”

“Nah,” Clay said. “She’s back to wanting us to go there.”

“But it is urgent, as always,” Nick said, sneaking a wedge of cantaloupe from Clay’s plate. “She did sound pretty freaked out, though.”

“How did you guys-?” Jaime began. “Oh, enhanced hearing, right? Nice trick.”

“Just be sure you never whisper anything in front of them,” Zoe said. “So what’s up with Anita?”

“She won’t say. Just that it’s extremely urgent this time, and she has critical information we absolutely must have right away, because we’re making a very big mistake.”

“Uh-huh. So, when you said you’ll be there, you were just blowing her off, right?”

“That’s up to Jeremy. And here he comes now, with Matthew Hull in tow.”

Zoe sipped her mimosa. “If you want, we can pop by Anita’s place on the way to visit that friend of mine. She lives near there.”

“Thought you wanted to steer clear of Anita Barrington,” Clay said.

“Steering clear of a curious old woman is one thing. But an immortality-questing witch who’s obsessed enough to tackle werewolves? Time to put a face to a name before I end up on the wrong end of a binding spell.”

Jeremy sent us to see Anita, but with Antonio and Nick in tow for backup. When we arrived, the beaded curtain was still drawn over the front display, the sign proclaiming the shop closed. We knocked there, rang the bell for the apartment and even found-and banged on-the rear door. No answer.

Antonio broke open the back door.

“Do you want me to wait out here with Elena?” Zoe whispered.

Clay shook his head. “Nick?”

“I’ll stay with the ladies.”

Ten minutes later, Clay and Antonio came out.

“She’s gone,” Antonio said. “We found traces of blood-”

I pushed past Clay and went inside. Clay waved Nick around to cover the front, while Antonio stayed and watched the back door. Zoe came in with us.

The shop was dark and quiet. I flipped on a light.

“Tiny place,” Zoe said, checking behind the counter. “Where’s the-?”

She inhaled and turned, following the blood beacon over to a display table. Beside it was not “traces” of blood, but a pool of it, covering several tiles. To the left was a sneaker print-large and wide, probably male.

As I crouched beside the blood, I bumped heads with Zoe.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just getting a better look.”

I sniffed, then looked up at Clay. “It’s hers.” I turned to Zoe. “Would that much blood loss be…?”

“Fatal?” She studied the pool. “It’s probably only a pint. Not fatal, but…well, you don’t lose that much with a paper cut.”

As I pushed to my feet, I saw another bloody print a couple of feet away. A small handprint, almost certainly not belonging to the same person who’d left the footprint. To the left of the print was what I thought was a smear. Then I got closer and saw it was a line, drawn by a bloody finger. On one side of the top was a diagonal, as if someone had started drawing an arrow, then been interrupted.

We followed the direction the arrow was pointing-the same as the outstretched handprint.

As Zoe surveyed the overstuffed bookshelf, she swore under her breath. “Let me guess, there’s a clue in one of those hundred books.”

“Forget it,” Clay said. “No time for games.”

I examined the shelf. “How about a quick round of ‘what in this picture doesn’t belong?’ ”

I reached down and took Anita’s cookie plate off a stack of books. A folded piece of paper tucked under it fluttered to the floor.

“Clever witch,” Zoe murmured.

I unfolded the note and read it with Clay looking over one shoulder, Zoe peering around the other.

Elena,

I know I should have delivered this message in person, but I don’t dare. I’m an old woman and if I can’t find the answers I seek, the least I can do is preserve what little time I have left. Patrick Shanahan has been here. He didn’t get what he wanted, but he won’t give up so easily. You need to know that-

The ink smeared there, the pen sliding across the page. Then, below it, a hastily added line, the handwriting cramped and rushed.

You are the key to the ritual and Patrick will say-do-anything to get to-

The note ended there.

We called Jeremy. After much discussion, he agreed Clay and I should push on and still visit Zoe’s contact. He’d bring Jaime over to the bookstore, meet up with Antonio and Nick and see whether Jaime could figure out what had happened to Anita.

Zoe led us along a shortcut behind a three-story walkup. Clay walked behind, on the lookout for rats. As we wove through the bags of garbage, steaming in the midday heat, I clapped my hand over my mouth and nose.

“Sorry,” Zoe said. “That must smell even worse to you. It’ll be better inside.” She paused. “Well, ‘better’ might not be the word. But it won’t smell of garbage. Will you be okay?”

I nodded. We came out on a street that straddled Cabbagetown and Regent Park. Like the portal street, this one was lined with Victorian homes, but these houses were like withered old ladies, traces of their former beauty still visible, but only if you strained to see past the signs of deterioration and decay.

Good bones, a Realtor would say. Farther down the road, the process of gentrification had already begun, putting a pretty face on the old gals to entice urban professionals who dreamed of owning a historic home without the inconvenience of hissing steam radiators and push-button lights. Here, though, no such process had begun. These old gals sat tight, comfortable in their squalor and decay, glaring down the road at their uppity neighbors.

“Here,” Zoe said, swinging open a rusted gate that led into a yard of weeds.

“So this woman…it’s a woman, right?” I said as we trekked through the yard.

“Umm, we think so.”

Zoe led us to the back of the house. She went to move an overloaded trash bin out of the way. Clay reached around and gave it a heave.

“Watch your arm,” I said.

Zoe slid into the space left by the bin.

“So this…woman,” I said. “What is she?”

Zoe knelt in front of a locked hatch. “We think she might be a clairvoyant. She seems to have some clairvoyant abilities, and the madness certainly fits that profile.”

“Madness?”

Clay shrugged at me, as if to say, after dimensional portals, zombie servants and half-demon serial killers, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Zoe was leading us down a hole to visit a white rabbit.

“Clairvoyants,” I continued. “They can’t see the future, right? More…lateral sight. Seeing things that are happening in other places right now.”

“You got it.” She undid the first combination lock on the hatch.

“And what they see drives them crazy. But…how crazy are we talking?”

Clay looked at me. “How crazy? They can’t figure out her gender, darling.”