Her imagination was running wild, and her nerves were still tingling with the icy-hot sensation. She desperately needed a shot of brandy.

She led the way down the hall and into the darkened study. Inside the small, cozy room she turned up a lamp and went to the little table that held the brandy decanter.

Owen crossed to the hearth, struck a light and lit the fire with the easy familiarity of a man making himself at home. When he was finished he rose, peeled off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He was not wearing a waistcoat, Virginia noticed. He unknotted his tie and left it hanging loosely around his neck. Next he opened the collar of his shirt. With deft movements of his fingers he removed the cuff links that secured the sleeves of his shirt, and tucked them into a pocket.

Virginia caught her breath. Oh, yes, he was definitely making himself at home.

She splashed brandy into two glasses. The decanter clinked lightly against the rim of one glass. She realized her hands were trembling. She set the decanter aside and gave Owen one of the glasses.

“To both of us getting some sleep tonight,” she said, raising her glass.

“To us.”

Not quite the same toast, she thought, but she did not think it would be a good idea to correct him.

His eyes never left hers as he downed some of the brandy.

She took a more cautious sip and lowered the glass.

“May I ask what you saw tonight when that storm of hallucinations struck?” she said.

“I saw the victims of the murders that I have investigated over the years,” he said. “The ones I failed.”

She exhaled slowly. “You mean those poor souls for whom you could not find justice?”

“And those I arrived too late to save. They are the ones who haunt me.” He went to stand in front of the fire. “What did you see, Virginia?”

She crossed the carpet to join him at the hearth. “My visions were not unlike your own. Like you, I saw the ones I failed, those who died by violence. The ones for whom there was no justice because the killer was never caught.”

He nodded once, understanding.

For a long moment they stood side by side, gazing into the fire.

“Do you ever wonder why we have been cursed with talents such as ours?” she asked after a time.

“There is no such thing as a curse,” he said. “That is superstitious nonsense.”

She almost smiled. “I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Sweetwater.”

“Of course. My apologies.” He drank some more brandy. “I tend to be quite literal when it comes to matters involving para-physics.”

“I understand.”

“I will tell you the truth, Virginia. The reason I responded so sharply just now is because there have been many times when I have asked myself the very same question.”

He had used her first name again. But she now thought of him as Owen, she reminded herself. It was astonishing how sharing danger had a way of injecting a degree of intimacy into the atmosphere between two people who were otherwise barely acquainted.

“I am a modern thinker, sir,” she said. “Like you, I certainly do not believe in the supernatural. But have you ever come up with an answer to the question?”

He gripped the edge of the mantel and contemplated the fire. “I can give you an answer that conforms to the laws of para-physics, at least what I know of those laws. There is, as I’m sure you know, a great deal left to be discovered in the field.”

“I am aware of that. Well? What is the scientific answer to the question?”

“A person who commits murder or an act of violence generates a heavy surge of psychical energy. Even the coldest of killers leaves a hot trail.”

“Yes,” she said. She shivered at the memory of some of the images she had seen in the mirrors.

“The same is true of the victim if he or she has time to react to the assault,” Owen continued. “Strong energy does not simply evaporate. It continues to oscillate in the atmosphere of a space and is absorbed into the surfaces of furniture, walls and floors.”

“And looking glasses.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, although I cannot perceive what you do when you look into a mirror. The physics of looking glasses are quite unique.”

“I comprehend that both of us are sensitive to the residue of the energy that is laid down by violence. But why do we both feel the need to find answers for those who are left behind?”

“I cannot answer that.”

She swirled the brandy in her glass. “Do you think that all of those who possess talents like ours experience the compulsion to seek justice and answers?”

“No, far from it.” He downed the last of the brandy and set the glass on the mantel. He did not take his attention off the flames. “There are people endowed with talents similar to our own who savor the atmosphere of murder in the manner of connoisseurs who appreciate fine art and great wine.”

She nearly dropped the brandy glass.

“What?” she said, and gasped.

Owen’s jaw hardened. He looked at her. A cold fire replaced the other kind of heat that had lit his eyes only a moment ago.

“There are those who seek out the scenes of murder and horrific violence in order to indulge their senses in the sensations that were generated in the moment of death,” he said.

It seemed to Virginia that the room chilled. “That is difficult to believe.”

But she had sensed the unwholesome excitement of the killers when she had looked deeply into the mirrors, she thought. She had witnessed that terrible thrill through the eyes of the victims. Owen was right, there were those who savored the act of murder.

“Some with talents similar to ours revel in violent energy to such a degree that they become addicted to it,” Owen said. “In order to satisfy their craving they do not merely seek out murder scenes, they create them.”

“They kill.”

“Again and again. With their talents.” He looked at her. “Those are the ultimate predators.”

Comprehension flashed through her. “Those are the killers you hunt.”

“Yes.”

“It is the desire for justice that drives you.”

The faint curve of his mouth held no trace of humor. “I cannot claim any such noble excuse, Virginia. I do not understand the need within me. I only know that I cannot escape it.” He paused. “It is an addiction of another kind.”

She knew then that he was not seeking absolution. He was telling her a truth about himself, waiting to see if she could accept it.

“I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “that we can turn to Mr. Darwin and the theory of evolution for guidance here.”

Owen looked first startled and then he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What in blazes does evolution have to do with this?”

“Well, it occurs to me that nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and so does society. We have criminals among us, so it follows that there are those who are drawn to stop them. Such people perhaps become policemen or detectives, or they choose to study the criminal mind.”

“I am not a policeman,” Owen said in a voice of stone.

“If human predators with strong psychical powers have evolved, which is clearly the case, then it is also logical that there are those like you who have evolved to hunt them,” she concluded.

Owen said nothing. He just watched her with his hunter’s eyes.

She cleared her throat. “It is the way of the natural world.”

“That is an interesting theory.”

“I certainly thought so.”

“Why are you bothering to search for a scientific explanation for the existence of a man like me?”

She finished her brandy and set the glass on the mantel, alongside the one he had placed there.

“I suppose it is because I would like to find a similar rational explanation for my own talent and the compulsion I experience whenever I am summoned to the scene of a violent death,” she said quietly.

“We are not two of a kind, Virginia. I can kill with my talent, and I have done so.”