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  Just another client, Jazz told herself. She drew a steadying breath and straightened up as Mason swung himself off the bike, unzipped his hoodie, and headed for the porch.

  When he put his foot on the bottom step, the whole house trembled. Mason stopped, looked around quickly as though he’d felt that, and snapped his gaze to Jasmine’s.

  He had wolf’s eyes. Gray and piercing, they could have been contemplating fleeing prey on moonlit grasslands. Sunlight touched dark hair that had been cut short, burning gold highlights into it.

  “You the psychic?” he asked. His voice was low, rumbling, and held disbelief.

  Jazz folded her arms. “I am. Are you the Shifter?”

  Mason looked over the house, which rose three stories above them, then he took a long inhalation, as though testing the air. “I’m Mason. Bree called you?”

  “She said you wanted to hire me.” Jazz forced her voice to take on its professional tones. Just another client. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll talk to you in the gazebo.”

  She walked briskly to the open double front door with stained glass sidelights. Beyond was a wide, breezy hallway that would take them straight through the house and out to the back veranda.

  Mason was next to Jazz before she could walk inside. She halted, drawing a quick breath, as Mason’s warm, hard body blocked the doorway.

  His aura almost knocked her over. Jazz had seen the hint of it as he’d approached the house, the animal overlaid with the man.

  Now that he was right next to her, Mason’s aura shoved everything else aside and took over. The psychic cloud around him was gray, like his eyes, but shot through with glowing gold.

  He looked at her with those wolf eyes that told her he could rip away all her psychic defenses and open up her soul. He’d take what he needed from her and then leave her exhausted, gasping, and terrified.

  Mason didn’t say a word, but his brows drew together as though wondering why she was standing there gaping at him. His hair, entirely dark now in the shadows, was messy from riding, and his body bulked under jeans, T-shirt, and light fleece jacket. The Collar that told the world without doubt that he was Shifter winked in the hollow of his throat.

  Without waiting for Jazz to speak or explain, Mason strode into the house, looking around in wariness, then held out a hand when she tried to follow him in.

  “Stop,” he said, the word forceful. “There is danger here.”

  Chapter Three

  What?” The psychic hurried in behind Mason without obeying his command. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Humans were like that. They rushed into danger and then got mad at Shifters for trying to keep them out of it.

  There was something weird about this house. Mason could smell it, the hovering strength waiting to crush if necessary, protecting or rejecting, as it decided.

  Houses didn’t have personalities, Mason told himself. Although, now that he thought about it, the one he lived in had an atmosphere of warmth and disorder, a messy kind of comfort. This house had seen gladness, pain, grief, death, life, and now bore an emptiness overlaid with a faint sadness.

  “You live here by yourself?” he asked Jasmine.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Mason looked down the wide hallway. Open from front door to back, the hall was paneled in polished, gleaming wood that had a deep red tone. Mahogany, probably, but very old. Doors, closed, lined it, and a staircase, set at a right angle to the large hall, led upward to dimly lit floors. In spite of the humid heat outside, a cool breeze filled the passageway.

  Jasmine herself was like a cool breeze. She had black hair, which didn’t look naturally black, cut short, the ends jagged against her cheeks. A tank top outlined her curved torso, and her skirt ended at mid-thigh, baring a long length of leg. Painted toenails peeked out from her sandals, and the same color stained the ends of her fingers. Another weird thing humans did. Why would anyone paint their claws?

  A colorful tattoo snaked up her left arm, a flowering vine that crept across her chest to end above her breast. Or did it? One vine dipped under her shirt. To encircle her nipple? Mason found himself trying to peer under the neckline of her tank top to see.

  Jasmine noticed. Her mouth firmed. “The gazebo is this way.” She pointed at the back door then marched down the hall toward the square of sunlight at the end.

  Her hips swayed under the skirt, her legs beckoning Mason’s attention. Her body was open and enticing, but her rigid walk said clearly—I don’t like Shifters, so don’t touch me.

  Fine. Whatever. Mason wasn’t here for pleasure—he was here to get directions to a Shifter healer so the crazy feral at his house would stop trying to kill him.

  He cast another glance up the stairs as he passed by and then looked at the corbeled ceiling above him. He held up his hands to whatever presence he felt here. Peace. I only want to talk to her. I’ll pay her fee without quibbling and go away.

  A gust of wind burst through the hall, making Jasmine’s skirt dance as she exited. Windows upstairs rattled, the staircase creaked, doors shook in their frames, and the chandelier that hung from the top of the house wobbled. Mason felt a breath of emotion touch him, but it held mirth rather than anger.

  This was so not right. Mason hurried to catch up with Jasmine and let out a breath when he made it to the back porch and the brightness of the afternoon.

  The gazebo, Mason saw, wasn’t a separate building, but a piece of the veranda that jutted out from the far right side of the porch. It ran a long way into the yard, seven of its eight sides exposed to the sunshine, the last side of the octagon open to the veranda.

  White painted lattices, railings, and what he’d heard called gingerbread decorated the gazebo. A wooden table from another century with chairs to match stood in the middle of it, and low shelves around the walls held flowering plants. A rose vine snaked around the outside of the lattices, red and pink roses just beginning to bloom. Books and small boxes filled another shelf.

  In one corner, on a stand, stood a guitar. Mason’s interested gaze went to it at once.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  Jasmine glanced at the guitar as though she’d forgotten its existence, then she flushed, suddenly shy. “A little. Not very well.” She shook herself, abruptly businesslike. “Please take a seat, Mr. McNaughton. I’ve been expecting your visit.”

  Mason pulled his attention from the guitar. It was a vintage Martin, a great instrument, maybe from the 1950s. In seriously good shape too, though worn from playing, which would only enhance the sound. This guitar had been treasured.

  He flicked his gaze back to Jasmine. She had blue eyes, deeply blue, like the depths of a Texas lake.

  “Why?” he asked skeptically. “Did you see it in your crystal ball?”

  She made a face. “Very funny. I’ve heard all the psychic jokes—trust me. The snide questions about why I haven’t won the lottery or why I don’t bet on the Super Bowl. I meant that I knew that you, specifically, were coming, because Bree told me. But, yeah, I did see in the cards and any other augury I cast that I would have an unusual visitor.” Jasmine’s lips thinned as though the things she’d seen hadn’t pleased her. “What is it you need my help with?”

  Mason lowered himself into a chair as Jasmine sat on the opposite side of the table. She took one of the intricately carved wooden boxes from the shelf, extracted a blue velvet cloth that matched her eyes, and carefully spread the cloth across the middle of the table.

  Mason placed his hands on the table’s wooden edge. As he did, the porch floor vibrated beneath his feet and the wind chimes moved, though the breeze had completely died. His wolf’s hackles rose.

  “You sure there’s no one else here?” He sniffed the air but detected only roses, old wood, and Jasmine, who smelled a little like … jasmine.

  “I’m sure,” Jasmine said. She rested her hand, palm up, on the cloth. In Shifter terms, that was a gesture of openness, showing she wasn’t a danger and could be trusted. In
human terms—who the hell knew? “The house is seriously haunted, but I’m the only person living here now.”

  “Haunted,” Mason repeated. “Right.”

  “I don’t mean with ghosts stalking up and down the halls or skeletons groaning in the cellar. I mean the house itself. It’s old and has been through a lot. Life, death, slavery, war, happiness, sadness, abandonment, neglect. I inherited it when my grandmother died last year, and though everyone advised me to sell it or turn it into a hotel, I decided I’d stay here and take care of it.” Jasmine glanced past Mason at the length of the veranda and the house’s many windows lined with dark green shutters. “The house seems happy with my decision.”

  Mason followed her gaze, taking in the house, then the few outbuildings—garage, what looked like a workshop of some kind, a small piece of garden, a few tiny cottages, a thick hedge, and more giant trees. Beyond the trees, he could see industrial buildings and the intrusive yellow arm of a crane. The house might once have been a stately home on a big farm on the river, but the world had moved on. Now the estate was a tiny island in the industrial heart of the Mississippi.

  “My house was never asked if it liked us,” Mason said, turning to the table again. “We were just told to live there. The house had to suck it up.”

  The corners of Jasmine’s mouth twitched, which softened her face. “Does it like you now?”

  Mason shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s bursting at the seams. There’s me, Broderick, Corey, Derek, Aunt Cora, and now Aleck, Nancy, and Joanne. Nancy and Joanne are both pregnant, so soon there will be two cubs running around in the mix.”

  Jasmine’s eyes widened, but he caught a wistfulness in her look. “I don’t know if I can wrap my brain around that. I need a lot of quiet time away from people or I go kind of crazy. Too much psychic residue.”

  Sure, the unbeliever in Mason said. The Shifter in him acknowledged that it was quiet here. Peaceful. The industrial world on the other side of the trees didn’t intrude, as though there was a shield around the place. He could rest here. Breathe.

  “I need your hand,” Jasmine said, wriggling her fingers.

  Mason looked at her outstretched palm waiting on the cloth. “What for? I only want you to help me find a guy.”

  “Yes, I know. But I need to know about you before I can answer your questions.”

  “Why?” Mason studied her in grave suspicion.

  Jasmine gave him an impatient look. “It’s part of my process. If you’re not interested, you can go back to Inspirations and make an appointment with someone else. I’ll still have to charge you forty bucks for wasting my time.”

  Mason frowned at her. “You this cranky with all your woo-woo clients?”

  “Only the ones who deride what I do and become major pains in the ass,” Jasmine said loftily. “I’m doing this as a favor to Bree—mostly because I feel sorry for her having to live with a Shifter. Now, either lay your hand on the table or go away.”

  Mason flashed back to his conversation with Seamus only yesterday, when Mason had made fun of him for letting females boss him around. Human ones at that.

  Mason let out a sigh, tugged off his right glove, and slapped his hand face down on the cloth. Jasmine grabbed it and turned it over.

  Her fingertips were smooth and cool as she skimmed diagonally across his palm. The touch was light, tickling, almost erotic. Mason’s heart sped and his skin heated, sweat beading on his upper lip. It sure was hot this afternoon.

  “Interesting.” Jasmine lost the edge to her voice as she bent closer to Mason’s hand. Mason gazed at the crown of her head, noting that the hair at the roots was a chocolate brown that blended into the black. A nice color. She had no need to cover it up.

  “What’s interesting?” Mason asked.

  “You do a lot of work with your hands. Hard work.” Her fingertips moved to the base of his thumb and the calluses there. “But this …” She brushed the crease that arced downward in the middle of his palm. “The way this line curves shows creativity. Lots of it. So does your aura.” She glanced at the air above his head as though seeing something there. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I work at a warehouse,” Mason answered readily. “Hauling around pallets. I’m a Shifter. Not allowed to do a lot of creative work, but the foremen like Shifter strength.”

  Jasmine gave him a steady look. “Aren’t you going to say You’re the psychic. You figure it out?”

  “I think psychic power is bullshit,” Mason said without changing expression. “I don’t have time to wait around for you to guess. For the creative thing, I’m a luthier.”

  Jasmine’s brows drew together. “A what?”

  “Luthier.” Mason pronounced the word carefully. “Someone who makes guitars. It comes from the word lute. I also make music boxes. Mostly I decorate the box itself—inlaid wood. My brother makes the gears and cylinders.”

  Jasmine’s lips parted in surprise. “Really? That’s … cool.”

  Mason shrugged. “My family’s done it for generations. We sell custom-made stuff for extra money.”

  “Is that why you asked me about my guitar?”

  Mason nodded. “It’s a Martin. A 00-18—I’d say 1958 or 59.”

  Jasmine turned her head to look at the instrument. “It was my grandmother’s. She was really good—she taught me how to play a few things.”

  “She took care of it,” Mason said.

  “She did. And of her house. And of me. She took me in when I was a teenager, after my parents were killed.” Jasmine jerked back to the table, her cheekbones pink. “I’m supposed to be talking about you.”

  “It’s part of my process,” Mason said calmly. “Now, can you help me find this guy or not?”

  Jasmine folded her fingers into her hand and didn’t touch Mason again. Too bad. Mason had liked her gentle caress, the way his blood had warmed in the wake of her fingertips.

  “Who is it you’re looking for?” she asked.

  Mason shrugged. “I don’t have any idea. He’s a Shifter and he lives in either Canada or the United States. I don’t know where, and I don’t know his name.”

  Jasmine stared. “Well, that’s not helpful. Do you at least know what he looks like?”

  “Nope. Never laid eyes on the man. Don’t even know what kind of Shifter he is.”

  Jasmine pinched the bridge of her nose. “Wait, wait, wait. You don’t know his name or what he looks like, only that he’s somewhere in the U.S. or Canada. And you expect me to look into a crystal ball and find him?”

  Mason deflated. “Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. It is stupid. But Bree said you could find anyone. So, go ahead. Find him.”

  Jasmine brought both her hands down to the table. “If you think it’s a bad idea, why did you come? You don’t believe I can do it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” Mason saw no reason to hide the truth. “I’m here because Bree was all excited about sending me to you, because I’m desperate enough to ride halfway across Texas and most of the way through Louisiana to see if you can help, and because I don’t want to be home at the moment. Your creepy house full of weird sounds isn’t as scary as waking up in the night with a stinking Feline tearing the hell out of your gut.”

  Mason dropped his hand to his abdomen. Though the wounds were mostly healed, thanks to Andrea and Mason’s own metabolism, the remembered pain lingered. Fucking Feline.

  Jasmine’s blue eyes rounded. “I saw pain edging your aura—and trauma. Is that what happened to you?”

  “Yeah, that happened to me. I rode five hundred miles—so I can sleep tonight without worrying about waking up fighting for my life.”

  “Oh.” Jasmine’s tongue came out to wet her lower lip, which made it moist and red. “So, where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said irritably. “I haven’t thought that far yet. There’s a Shiftertown around here, right?”

  “West and south of here. On the way to Thibodaux. It will take you a while to get out
there, though, and it will be well past dark before you make it.” Jasmine looked at his hands again, one still gloved. “Shifters aren’t supposed to go to other Shiftertowns though, are they?” She hesitated. “You could always crash here.”

  Mason regarded her flushed face in surprise. Was she propositioning him? Some human females, like the groupies, would do anything for a shag with a Shifter, though Mason had never obliged. He’s sensed that the quieter of the women at the New Age store today had been more than willing.

  Jasmine didn’t look the same as the women who sidled up to Mason and his brothers at Shifter bars, looking for a night in the sack. Mason always turned them down, not liking their self-seeking grasping. Jasmine made the offer nervously, as though she felt obligated to offer hospitality and hoped Mason would say no.

  Under his steady gaze, Jasmine’s flush deepened. “There’s a bunk in the workshop over there.” She waved her hand at the outbuildings. “I have to keep this place up if I want it listed as a historic home and let tourists pay to see it, so sometimes the carpenters sleep there while they’re restoring things.”

  “In other words, you’re just being polite,” Mason said.

  “I was raised to be courteous,” Jasmine said coolly. “If you’re caught outside your state, you’ll be arrested, right? I really do want to find out more about you and see if I can help you. I’m interested.” She tightened her lips. “Professionally, I mean. Don’t worry, I’ll lock my doors.”

  Mason huffed a laugh. “I’m not interested in human women, sweetheart. And I don’t want to stay in your weird-ass house, believe me.” The floorboards vibrated again, as though the place laughed at him.

  “It likes you,” Jasmine said in surprise. “The house I mean. It doesn’t like everyone.”

  “Oh good,” Mason rumbled. “A building that thinks I’m cool.”

  “It’s not usually that bad. It’s just acting up today for some reason.”

  Jasmine said the words offhand, but Mason saw the worry in her. She knew damn well why the house was on edge, but she wasn’t going to share the knowledge.