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Jax shook his head as he went to the living room—Kaj made it look so easy. It had never been that easy for him.

Den had answered the door by the time he reached the outer room, admitting Pol Haus. The Zabrak police prefect looked positively grim. The emotion behind the expression on his face was so intense that Jax realized it was what had pulled him from his meditations. Haus was wrapped in dark Force threads that, though as insubstantial as smoke, were troublingly sinister and seemed to be in constant motion. They went nowhere; they simply wound themselves around the prefect in a visible analog for the tension that showed in his face as pale gray lines bracketing his mouth.

The prefect stepped through the conapt doorway and let the door glide shut behind him before he spoke.

“We’ve got a situation,” he said without preamble.

Jax exchanged glances with Den. “A situation?” he prompted.

The Zabrak fixed him with a steady gaze. His eyes, usually distracted and unfocused, were as sharp as the pointy end of a vibrosword. This, Jax realized, was the real Pol Haus—the man who lived beneath the carefully cultivated air of shambling disorganization.

“One of your lot has murdered an Inquisitor.”

“One of my lot?”

Haus tipped his horned head to one side. “C’mon, kid. Do I have to spell it out? A Jedi—if not officially, then a pretty powerful Force-sensitive. Seems he or she fried this Inquisitor with the energy siphoned from a couple of badly aligned repulsor fields. Is that in your repertoire?”

“Oh frip,” muttered Den.

Jax very nearly took a step backward but, sensing no hostility from the Zabrak, stood his ground. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Of course that’s not in my repertoire. I’m not—”

“Save it, Pavan. I don’t have time to let you blow smoke at me, and you don’t want to make me mad at you. Look, I’m not going to give you up to the Inquisitorius, if that’s what you’re wondering, so let’s just see if we can’t work past this momentary awkwardness and get to the heart of the matter.”

That had, in fact, been what Jax had been wondering—if he was looking a threat in the face. Now, reaching out toward Haus with tendrils of Force, he wasn’t so sure.

“Jax …” Den shifted nervously from foot to foot, glancing up at the Jedi’s face. Apparently not liking what he saw there, he swore again, this time more volubly.

“No,” Jax said, in answer to Haus. “No, it’s not in my repertoire. I don’t have that kind of ability.”

Pol Haus nodded. “That’s sort of what I figured. The perp was described to me as a rogue Force-sensitive, dangerous and out of control. It was suggested to me that I do everything in my power, move every resource at my disposal, to run this rampaging adept to ground.”

“Suggested by …?” Den asked.

Haus kept his gaze on Jax as he answered Den’s question. “Darth Vader.”

Den made an incoherent sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. Jax blinked and gave Haus’s mantle of Force threads a more careful look. Yes, they made more sense now. The prefect had been touched by the emissary of the dark side. The touch still stained his personal aura—and obviously disturbed him a great deal.

“So that’s why I’m here,” the prefect continued. “If a Jedi or some rogue Force-user offed this Inquisitor, you’re the best person to help me find them before they assassinate another one.”

Jax gestured at the room behind him. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat and we’ll discuss it?”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the expression on the Sullustan’s face. Dumbfounded didn’t even begin to cover it. Jax nudged Den into motion as he turned to follow the prefect into the living room.

What are you doing? Den mouthed at him.

Jax waved the journalist back, mouthing in return, Get I-Five and Dejah, and nodding toward the workstation alcove. Den scurried away while Jax led the prefect into the living room.

Jax knew that Den had no idea what he was doing. Truth be told, Jax himself wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he was painfully aware that the object of Pol Haus’s search was sitting not six