Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
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she read the person more than she ever read a tarot card or tea leaf. And she was very good at it; as a priestess, she knew her followers. She knew when they needed guidance, when they should take a chance and when they should keep their heads down.
But that day, when she’d read Danni’s tea leaves, something had been different. Danni had never seen Natasha quite like she’d been that day.
“I’m sensing that this is a situation we all need to be involved in,” Natasha said, glancing at Danni.
Danni felt Quinn’s eyes on her. Then, when she reached for a plate, she felt his hand. He looked at her as he asked Natasha, “What did you see?”
Natasha seemed to carefully gauge her words. “A very strange sight, and that’s why I’m so curious about your ‘fog’ at the station. I saw Danni standing on a hill, and there was a castle in the background...a medieval castle, I believe. She was shouting, warning someone. The fog—the mist or whatever it was—seemed dark and shadowy. Gloomy. But there was something else.”
“Like what?” Quinn pressed.
“There was a crimson cast to it. Crimson...red...” She paused. “I wish I’d seen more. I wish I knew more.”
“Crimson. Red,” Larue repeated.
“The color of blood,” Billie said.
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