Now this was something I understood. My magic boots clearly hadn’t sucked away any of the basic supernatural studies I had done while I was a Meratoliage, because I knew Philippe was referring to a ghost or spirit, or perhaps even an illusion. At the very mention of “phantom,” my boots even seemed to perk up, tickling me, awfully interested for a pair of footwear. “How do you know,” I asked, “that this killer isn’t a run-of-the-mill psychopath? A human?” Philippe barred his chest with his arms. This serious version of him made my blood heat in my veins. Flirty was one thing, but this? Manly. Primal. “I had a vision,” he said. “It must have come to me right before the murders happened. In fact, it interrupted a session with a client in the voodoo shop.” I frowned, trying to recall where he had worked. He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s where we met? Where I pick up extra money when my other business is slow?” My boots prodded me, and the word carpenter flashed across my mind.
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