“What?” His fingertips skimmed a red spot on her forehead that was already swelling. She flinched and muttered a weak complaint.

“You hit your head,” he told her.

She made a frustrated noise and pushed herself up to sit, despite his protests. “You didn’t see it,” she said miserably.

Another vision.

The door to the restroom burst open, and noise from the club blared. One of Gris-Gris’s enforcers, Joe, lunged through the doorway. “Bo? What’s going on?”

“The man who ran out of here . . .” Bo said. “Someone stop him. He attacked Miss Magnusson.”

Joe didn’t question him or ask for more information. He just shouted over the clamor and disappeared into the crowd. Bo knew everyone who worked at Gris-Gris, from the janitors to the house band’s drummer, and any one of them would pitch in to help.

“What is happening to me?” Astrid whispered. Long lashes, thick with mascara, blinked up at him, a pleading anxiety behind her eyes.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. Screw decorum. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her against his chest. She didn’t resist. Slender arms circled his back as she lay her head on his aching shoulder and buried her face in the collar of his jacket.

She felt impossibly good, soft and warm, clinging to him. His heart was an overexcited child that raced madly with the thrill of possession, no matter how fleeting.

He heard the door open. Knew Astrid heard it, too. Yet both of them were hesitant to release each other.

“Bo Yeung,” a commanding feminine voice called out. “I leave Gris-Gris for two hours and come back to pandemonium. Should’ve known you’d be involved.”

He glanced up to see the owner of the club standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her breasts. Her eyes fell on Astrid and all her irritation turned to worry.

“Lord,” she swore. “What kind of trouble have you been into?”

—

Bo didn’t believe the attacker could just disappear into the night after running through a club half filled with people, but he had. According to Astrid, “Max” was the only name he’d given her. It didn’t matter. Bo had tracked down people with less information than that, and for far more trivial reasons. He’d find him. No one hurt Astrid and got away with it.

No one.

Following Velma’s efficient strides, Bo ushered Astrid through a door behind the bar and into a short hallway. To their right, the club’s bustling kitchen gleamed bright behind a windowed swinging door, but they were headed left. A tall painted bookcase was empty but for a small stack of old menus and a metal dustpan. Bo released a hidden latch on the side and swung the bookcase away from the wall to reveal a doorway and a low-ceilinged room. He turned on the lights. Rows of shelves lined with Magnusson-imported liquor bottles led to an open area with a desk, where the club’s bar manager did the accounting.

Bo had spent a lot of time back here over the years, unloading crates and taking orders. He turned the desk chair around and urged Astrid to sit while Velma squinted down at her with a troubled look on her face.

“Wanna tell me what this is all about?” she asked, glancing from Astrid to Bo.

Velma Toussaint was a former dancer in her mid-thirties who moved to San Francisco from Louisiana after inheriting the club from her former—and now deceased—husband. She was elegant and beautiful, with pale nutmeg skin of indeterminable ancestry and shiny brown hair sculpted into a short Eton crop. And she not only single-handedly ran one of the most successful clubs in the city, but was also a hoodoo—or a root doctor, as she liked to call herself. Her talent was magical spellwork, mostly herbal in nature. She was well versed in curses, hexes, jinxing, and unjinxing.

In other words, you did not want her for an enemy.

Bo leaned against the edge of the desk and let Astrid tell the story about the yacht, only interrupting when she chattered too far off into tangential territory, which Astrid often did, no matter the subject. He secretly enjoyed listening to her talk. She had opinions about everything and rarely kept them to herself, even when she was wrong, and he liked that. But Velma didn’t share his amusement or patience.

“So this Max fellow knew who you were?” Bo said when Astrid finally got around to explaining what had just transpired in the club’s restroom. “But why do you think he had anything to do with the people on the yacht? He wasn’t one of the survivors, was he?”

“I’m not sure.”

Hard to tell in the rain, with all that blue makeup smeared on their faces. Now Bo wished he’d taken a second look at them at the hospital. “He was probably just a reporter.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” she admitted. “But I started feeling funny when his ring hit my wrist.” She quickly rubbed her hand over the spot, as if she could erase it. “The symbol on the ring could have been the symbol on the idol. And, Bo, the inlay was turquoise.”

Shit.

“Just where is this so-called idol?” Velma asked.

Bo retrieved it from his coat pocket and unfolded the handkerchief wrapping. “It doesn’t seem to have any sort of charge anymore. I’ve touched it several times without incident.”

“No magical energy,” Velma confirmed as she peered at it for a moment, and then picked it up. “Heavy,” she noted, weighing it in her hand. “Solid turquoise, you think? If it’s old, could be worth a pretty penny.”

“No doubt,” Bo agreed.