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any quest. Like a hunter that has sighted prey, she thought. The image was
disturbing. It was also, unaccountably, thrilling. It was as if he had issued
some sort of elemental challenge.
She pondered her answer, strongly tempted to evade a direct reply. He was
unlikely to believe her if she tried to explain her unusual talent, she
thought. But she was intrigued by the fact that he was astute enough to
realize that she had perceived something beyond the ordinary. Few people of
her acquaintance, male or female, would have guessed that much.
Part of her was also suddenly curious to know how he would respond to the
truth.
"I doubt that you will credit this," she said, readying herself for instant
skepticism, "but I saw an aura of psychical energy around the fleeing man."
The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
"Damnation," he finally said, very softly. "I suspected as much, but I
couldn't be certain."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Never mind. Tell me about these auras you see."
She had been prepared for disbelief, not a reasonable question. It took her a
moment to adjust.
"They appear in the form of waves of energy that pulse around the individual,"
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she said.
"You see these auras around everyone you meet? That must be somewhat
disconcerting."
"I do not see them unless I concentrate and make an effort to distinguish
them. Then, it is like looking
at a negative image of the world. In that state, I can make out auras."
"Interesting."
"I do not expect you to understand what I am trying to tell you but I assure
you that it I were to encounter the killer again and it I knew to look at him
with my second sight I would very likely recognize him."
"Would you now?" he asked softly.
She did not know what to make of that response so she forged ahead, anxious to
complete her explanation.
"You see why I did not say anything about any of this to the man from Scotland
Yard," she said. "I
doubt very much that he would have believed me. You saw how he treated me. I
le assumed that I
was a victim of shock and that I was teetering on the verge of hysteria."
"True." Gabriel lounged against the edge of her desk. "He did aim most of his
questions at me, didn't he?"
"Because you are a man."
"And because he believed me to be your husband."
"That, too." She made a face. "Even if I had volunteered the information about
the fleeing man's aura, it would not have done the detective any good. There
is no point describing a person's psychical energy pattern to someone who
cannot perceive it."
Gabriel studied her fora moment. "You say auras are distinctive?"
"Yes. They definitely vary from one person to another. There are colors
involved but I cannot tell you the names of the hues and shades that I see
because they do not correspond to those that I see with my normal vision. I
have invented my own, private vocabulary to describe them but it would be
meaningless to you. There is also something about the intensity and the
pattern of the psychical energy that is particular to each person."
"Can you determine a person's sex from his aura?"
"No. That is why I cannot say for certain that the fleeing figure was male or
female."
"What of an individual's character or inclinations?"
That, she thought, was a very perceptive question. "Sometimes those aspects,
if they are strong enough, are often startlingly vivid, yes."
"What did you learn about the nature of the person you saw in the hallway
tonight?" he asked.
She drew a deep breath. "If that person had been an animal, I would have said
that he was a predator, a creature that kills when death suits its purposes.
In the animal kingdom, such beasts have a rightful place. They kill only to
live. But among humans, we would label such an individual a monster."
Gabriel went motionless. All expression evaporated from his face.
"I see," he said. "A monster."
"That is how the fleeing figure appeared to me. Cold-blooded and very
frightening. Quite frankly, I hope
I never have occasion to see him or her again."
He did not speak.
Something about the dark stillness that emanated from him made the hair stir
again on the nape of her neck, just as it had earlier when she had seen the
killer flee the scene of his crime.
"Good night, Mr. Jones," she said.
"Good night, Venetia."
She stepped out into the hall, closed the door and hurried toward rhe
staircase. She flew up the stairs as it she were being chased by the sort of
predator that she had just tried to describe to Gabriel.
When she reached the safety of her bedroom she was breathless. The sight of
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