“So Rik has always been anal about his stuff,” Clara went on over Sam’s laughter, one hand waving wildly through the air as she illustrated her story, the other holding on to what had to be her fourth glass of wine. Not that Sam was really certain of that, since she had been matching the other woman glass for glass. It was really good wine! “Like, OCD should be spelled R-I-K level of anal. Anyways, I was playing with my Barbies, and decided that Barbie really, really needed to date G.I. Joe, right? I mean, obviously! Ken’s totally gay, and Barbie was holding out for a hero til the morning light!”

Sam nodded her head in agreement as she waved for Clara to continue. Granted, her Barbies had preferred He-Man, since he was all big, brawny, and blond, and G.I. Joes were like half his size, but whatever. Semantics.

Pausing to take a deep gulp of her expensive wine like it had come out of a vacuum-packed box, Clara continued, “Rik kept his collection in this display case, like they were trophies or something. So one day, while he was out training, I decided I needed a Joe, so I snuck into his room all ninja-like, figuring I could get in and get out with no one the wiser. I mean, he just collected them, never played with them. They were even in their original packaging and everything. But I thought I could totally put them back in, glue the boxes back closed, and he would never notice.”

Clara lifted her glass, stopping in her monologue to stare blearily into the empty depths. “I think someone stole my wine!” She squinted suspiciously over at Sam, who was finishing up her own glass at that moment. With a gusty sigh, Clara snagged the bottle and poured them both another round, finishing up the second bottle. “Where was I?” she asked plaintively.

“Discussing how your brother is an obsessive-compulsive dick,” Sam replied instantly, brightly, a chipper grin on her rosy-cheeked face. Yep, she was a little past three sheets to the wind now, but it was the first time in months that she felt more herself. Squinting through her glasses, Sam wrinkled her nose and tugged them off, shutting her eyes tightly against the chaotic swirls of light that danced around Clara’s upper body. Blues, greens, pinks, every damn color of the rainbow had decided that Clara was a dancing pole and they were candy-colored strippers.

“Aw, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Clara’s voice was concerned, and Sam felt a light hand clumsily pat her own as she fumbled with trying to clean the lenses with the hem of her flannel shirt.

Cracking open one eye, seeing Clara’s concerned expression, Sam gave a helpless giggle as she said, “You’re too pretty.”

Clara jerked her hand back, “Uh, Sam, I’m flattered and all that, but…”

Chortling, snorting, and nearly toppling over, Sam managed to gasp out, “Not that way!” Plopping her glasses back on the edge of her nose, Sam drew herself up and sneered, her lips twitching as she said, “But bitch, you’d be so lucky to have me butch to your femme!”

This time, it was Sam who had to pat Clara’s hand as the other woman choked on her chug of wine. Waving Sam’s assistance off, Clara very carefully placed her glass back on the table with her entire focus on making sure it didn’t topple over—or the contents get stolen again—before she managed, “Then thanks. I think.”

Deciding that it was better to be blunt, Sam’s expression turned serious as she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I meant your aura. You glow like freaking Rainbow Brite at a rave. It’s pretty, but rather straining on the eyes.”

Blinking slowly, Clara leaned in to likewise whisper, “My aura?”

Nodding slowly, Sam gave her a half-hearted grin. “My dad said I inherited the Sight from my gram. Seems to run in the females in his family.”

Clara blinked more rapidly now as she digested Sam’s revelation. Carefully enunciating each syllable, Clara replied, “So, you are telling me that you see auras and spirits?”

“Yep, have since I was a kid,” Sam said simply. She tapped the edge of her glasses, “When I’m wearing glasses, though, I don’t see anything, but without them, I see things that aren’t…normal.”

“Dead people?” Clara squeaked, looking green around the gills as her head jerked wildly around as she cast about for invisible spectres from beyond the grave.

“Yeah, sometimes them, too,” Sam admitted, “But those are usually few and far between. Only certain spirits linger, mostly they just seem to dissipate. I’ve never seen a poltergeist or anything like that, just weird echoes. Mostly, though, I tend to see the really real world, and let me tell you, some things you can’t just unsee once you’ve seen them!”

“And when you look at me, what do you see?” Clara asked, then grinned, “Besides the spaztastic rainbow?”

Sam gave Clara The Look, then sighed dramatically as she yanked her glasses off and squinted at the other woman. Clara’s aura had reshaped itself, wisps snaking off her, gently stroking along the table and even curling around the wine glass. Some of the wisps attempted to touch Sam, but they shuddered away from her. Tilting her head slightly, squinting just a bit more, Sam snorted a laugh. The light flickering around Clara’s face was like a second face, identical in an eerie way, forming a grinning mien. Clara’s real face, beneath the façade, however, was twisted in one of those faces that Sam’s mother had always warned her not to make: tongue sticking out, eyes bugging out and crossed, and while the glowing afterimage of her hand was still wrapped around her wineglass, her real hand was perched on her forehead with her beautifully manicured fingers lifting the tip of her nose to give her a snout.

“Okay, so you better hope no one slaps your back, otherwise your face is going to freeze like that, and trust me, it’s not a pretty look,” Sam finally managed to get out between her snorting giggles. Guh, now she sounded like a stuck pig.

As Clara lowered her hand…the real one…the rainbow mist swirled back until it was once more masking her body, duplicating her movements precisely. Putting her glasses back on, Sam found the pretty blonde woman staring at her in shock.

“You can see through my glamour,” Clara muttered softly before she picked up her wineglass and chugged it like a thirsty frat boy with one hand, while waving her other hand to indicate one of the servers should bring another bottle over. She continued to stare oddly at Sam until after the server had left, and while she poured another glass of the rich red wine, she finally said, “Damn, Sam, does anyone else know about this?”

With a shake of her head, Sam murmured, “No, just my family. It’s sort of an open secret with them. My mother doesn’t like to talk about it at all, so out of respect for her, we’ve always kept it quiet. And my dad always told me that if I saw something that upset me, I should tell my brothers and they’d take care of it.” She grinned sheepishly, “I’ve got four older brothers, and all four of them are rather…overprotective. I had to beg them not to go and skin ‘The Bastard’ alive after ‘The Event.’”

Giggling like the drunken loon she was, Clara scooted her chair around the small table until she was next to Sam. Looping one arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders, she waved the other extravagantly to indicate the now crowded dining room. “Okay then, tell me what you see.”

Refilling her own wineglass, Sam leaned back with a giggle. “Fine, but you owe me a slice of cheesecake for this,” she told Clara as she hooked a finger on the bridge of her glasses and slid them down her nose as she let her eyes roam over the crowd.

“Hm, let’s see,” Sam said thoughtfully. Tapping the tip of her nose as her eyes swung slowly across the room, she said, “That server, the one who keeps hooking us up with wine, has a second skin like a fox, he’s all red fur and mischief, so probably a werefox or something like that.” She turned her attention to a group of cackling women, of various ages, shapes, dress, and nationalities, who, like Clara and Sam, had apparently spent a little too much time getting up close and personal with Bacchus’ favorite fruits. “The group over there, all of their auras mesh, like braided garlands, and you can almost catch the scent of rich loam and herbs, so I’m guessing witches of some sort.”

From the corner of her eye, Sam caught a shimmer of something like warm sunlight, a brilliant gold that caught her attention and drew her gaze to the hostess station near the main entrance from the Château. Framed in the doorway, casting his eyes around like he was looking for someone, was the source of that sunlight.

Like Clara, the man’s aura was too vivid, almost too bright, but where Clara’s was hypnotic to the point of nearly triggering seizures, his was like staring straight into the heart of the sun. Yet, her eyes didn’t water; instead, the light reached out to her, warming her, filling even the deepest, darkest cracks in her heart and soul. She wanted to stretch like a lazy feline and just soak in that light.

The man wore that aura like a suit of armor, the edges precise and controlled, with flickers of brilliant silver and…Sam squinted…over his heart, she could just catch the hint of a scarlet pulsing light that thrummed with such intensity, it made her catch her breath.

Quickly pushing her glasses back up so she could see the man clearly, without the intense aura overwhelming her, Sam’s breath escaped her in a low, soft whistle. Wow.

An old, battered Broncos ball cap was pulled low over the man’s forehead, obscuring his eyes, but from what she could see of his face, he had a strong jawline, with sensual lips and a patrician nose. A Broncos sweatshirt, that had seen the inside of a washing machine enough to render the once dark blue fabric just a shade darker than the man’s denim jeans, did little to conceal the man’s broad shoulders and muscular arms, with the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms lightly dusted with golden hair and large, strong hands that were currently fisted at his sides. The worn denim that hugged his lower body had Sam sending a mental prayer of thanks to the denim god, Levi, because the cut emphasized his lean waist and powerful thighs.

Sam’s internal whimper must have escaped, since she heard Clara ask, “Sam, why are you drooling? You look like you just woke up on Christmas morning to find a naked Hugh Jackman wrapped in a pretty red bow!”

Drooling? Drooling was bad. Very unattractive! Quickly, Sam reached up to wipe her mouth. Not finding any drool, she gave Clara a glare, only to see the blonde was trying to stifle a laugh as she peered blearily toward the front of the restaurant.

Turning to give Sam a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, Clara said, “Oh no, sweetie, that’s my brother you’re drooling over. You know, Sir Buttmunch of the OCD?”

Well, shit. Mr. Hot Hunk of Beef is Mr. O-C-Dick. Maybe I should go lesbian. Less drama!