“You need a good night’s sleep,” he said.
She did not argue.
Wayne studied Luther. “So, what’s the plan here? Do we just whack anyone who shows up at the restaurant singing something we don’t like?”
“That could leave us with a lot of bodies to explain,” Petra observed. “Lot of bad singing out there.”
“I think the larger issue here is making sure that Grace is never alone until this is over,” Luther said.
“No problem.” Wayne went back to his udon.
Grace set her chopsticks very precisely across the soup bowl and looked at the three of them with a faintly baffled expression.
“It’s very nice of you to do this for me,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No big deal,” Petra assured her. “Makes for a change of pace.”
“Change is good once in a while,” Wayne said. “Keeps life interesting. Forget about thanking us. You’re with Luther.”
She flicked a quick, searching glance at Luther and then turned back to Wayne. “That matters?”
“Sure,” Petra said. “Makes you family.”
Grace sat back, hands tightening on the edge of the table, shock in her eyes. “But I’m not family.”
“You got your definition,” Wayne said. “We’ve got ours. If we say you’re family, then you’re family.”
Grace’s eyes glinted with tears. “I don’t . . . You don’t even know me.”
“Forget the mushy stuff,” Petra said. “Tell us more about Sirens.”
Grace grabbed her napkin, dabbed at her eyes and then cleared her throat a couple of times. She took a sip of wine and set down the glass, composed once more.
“I spent some time researching the subject of mythological Sirens in order to get some background. It occurred to me that some of the ancient legends might have a basis in fact.”
“Huh.” Luther looked up from his soup, intrigued. “You think there might be something to those old tales about sailors who were lured to their deaths on the rocks by the music of the Sirens?”
“Maybe,” Grace said. “According to the myths, there were some folks who survived the encounters. One story states that when Orpheus heard the Sirens’ music he took out his lyre and countered the effect by creating music that was more beautiful than the song of the Sirens.”
“In other words, he neutralized the energy of their music by setting up a counter-resonating pattern,” Luther said.
“Or maybe he just drowned out their song,” Grace suggested.
“Like using one of those white-noise generators to cancel out the sound of street traffic at night?” Wayne asked.
Petra brightened. “We can crank up the rock we play at the Dark Rainbow.”
“Can’t hurt,” Grace said. “But remember that we’re not dealing with just music here. The Siren is able to infuse her singing with psychic energy. I don’t think we should assume that even the Grateful Dead can cancel out those wavelengths.”
“Loud noise of any kind might make it harder for the Siren to concentrate, though,” Luther said. “And if she can’t hold a focus, all the psychic power in the world is useless.”
“True,” Grace said. “Also, no singer can stay on key if she doesn’t get the right auditory feedback, so she probably needs a suitable venue for one of her performances.”
“Any other ideas on how to handle her?” Wayne asked.
“Maybe. When Odysseus and his men sailed past the Sirens’ location, he had his sailors stuff beeswax in their ears so they couldn’t hear the music.”
“Simple, but effective,” Wayne said. “I don’t fancy the idea of walking around twenty-four/seven with earplugs, though. I like to use my ears.”
Grace made a triangle with her fingers and framed the stem of her glass. “There’s something else I think we can assume. According to what I found in my research, a very powerful Siren might be able to throw a whole theater full of people into a light trance but she can only project the full force of her killing talent on one, at most two people at a time. I saw proof of that at the hotel. I could feel it when she switched her attention from the maid to me. But when the elevator started to open, she panicked and fled. She knew she couldn’t control any more than just the two of us.”
“Stupid thing to do, trying to kill the housekeeper,” Petra mused. “Wonder what the hell she planned to do with the body?”
Grace contemplated that for a few seconds. “If it had been me, I would have put it into the housekeeping cart and taken it out that way.”
A round of silence greeted that statement. Wayne and Petra looked impressed.
Grace frowned. “Did I say something?”
“No,” Luther said before any of the others could ask Grace why she had known exactly what to do with an inconvenient body. “Moving right along, the other fact we know about our Siren is that she seems to prefer opera because it allows her the high, killer notes.”
“Okay, that’s interesting,” Petra said. “But what does it tell us?”
“Well, for one thing,” Grace said, “it tells us that she probably has had formal musical training. It’s not much but it’s something. By the way, there is one thing in our favor.”
Petra raised her brows. “What?”
“The laws of paraphysics. Psychic energy can’t be transmitted mechanically. Like the rest of us, the Siren has to project her talent in person. She can’t simply mail her victims a CD and expect them to keel over dead when they listen to her music.”
Petra wiggled her brows at Luther. “Congratulations, I see you’ve found yourself a real glass-half-full kind of woman.”
Luther grinned at Grace. “Yeah, I’ve turned over a new leaf. Who says I’m depressed?”
THIRTY
Damaris came awake with the familiar panicky feeling. Something was wrong. But that wasn’t true. Everything was all right again. The Maui operation had gone off perfectly in the end. Eubanks was dead and La Sirène was back in San Francisco. Her racing heart and the breathless sensation were due to the drug. She dreaded the next injection. It was scheduled for nine a.m.
The phone rang. She rolled onto her side and grabbed it off the bedside table. One glance at the incoming number iced her blood.
“What is it?” she said into the phone. “What’s wrong?”