“MacMillian pinched the bridge of his nose. Conspiracy theories, secret societies... what the hell had he gotten himself into? What was next? Vampires? Werewolves?”

“The way he smiled with just one corner of his mouth said he’d show her a good time if she let him.”

“When had she moved so close? Her brain screamed at her to back away. She would regret this. She already regretted this.”

“A chaotic mix of emotions churned inside him. Relief. Anger. Longing. She was the last person in the world he wanted to see. She was the only person in the world he wanted to see.”

“Something about the floating club reminded him of Wonderland. Not Disney's Wonderland, either, but Wonderland according to Lewis Carroll: dark, sumptuous. Treacherous. It was the sort of place where anything could happen...and probably did. He had a feeling if a deranged, bloodthirsty monarch suddenly swept in and started demanding people's heads, no one would bat an eye.”

“Wrong. This was wrong. A list of words raced through his head. Apostate, heretic, pagan.Witch.”

“Durbin's sunglasses were gone, and his gray eyes sparkled up at her. He winked. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Venkman."Lena bit back a grin. "You too, Dana Barrett.”

“Lena scowled at the empty space in her living room. "Oh sure, thanks, I had fun too." She'd stayed awake, spilled a cup of perfectly good tea, and for what? A spirit with the noncorporeal equivalent of erectile dysfunction. Mostly she was fine being permanently on-call in the Veil. On nights like this, however, it sucked.”

“That, my dear detective, was the other San Francisco. You've probably seen it before, just out of the corner of your eye. You've probably dismissed it all your life. Maybe you always told yourself you'd just had too much to drink." She paused, her gaze heavy on his face. MacMillian squirmed. "But I'm guessing you always knew better."His head was throbbing. He shook it once, twice, but it didn't clear. "I don't get it, Miss...""Alan," she supplied.He nodded. "Ms. Alan. Why are you here?"Her eyes darkened. "Because there are things that go bump in the night, Mr. MacMillian. It's my job to bump back.”

“I should hex the IRS.”

“MacMillian groaned again, and sat up. "Clients?""Yeah. You know, people who'll give us money in exchange for work.”