“Here’s the big difference between you and most of the other conspiracy-theory folks,” Luther said. “Ninety-five percent of the time you’re right.”
“Actually, it’s more like ninety- six point two percent,” Fallon corrected absently. “It used to be higher, but I had to recalculate after the Hawaii case. Regardless, it leaves a small but very real margin for error. You two found that out the hard way.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t make a few mistakes,” Grace said generously. “Have you given my suggestion any thought, Mr. Jones?”
“What suggestion?”
“I told you that you needed an assistant.” Grace looked around the office. “You’re getting buried in paperwork and computers here. You need someone to organize this place.”
He surveyed the office. “I know where everything is.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean that things are organized efficiently,” Grace said. “We talked about this. The burden of commanding the fight against Nightshade falls mostly on your shoulders. You’re the man in charge, but you have to face the fact that you can’t do it all. You need someone who can take over the day-to-day administrative tasks so that you will be able to focus on more important priorities.”
“She’s right,” Luther said. “Might help if you got more sleep, too. No offense, but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck. When was the last time you got a full night’s rest?”
For some reason he felt the need to defend himself. “I don’t need a lot of sleep,” he muttered.
“Yes, you do,” Grace said. “Hire an assistant, Mr. Jones. And soon.”
“And on that note, we’re out of here,” Luther said. He smiled at Grace. “Ready, honey?”
“Yes.” She glanced at her watch as she walked toward the door. “Oh, wow, look at the time. We definitely need to be on our way north.”
Luther nodded at Fallon. “Later, Fallon.”
“One thing before you leave,” Fallon said. He looked at Grace. “None of my business, but are you okay?”
She blinked, startled. Then she laughed. “Never better, Mr. Jones. I’m pregnant. I’m surprised you noticed, though. I’m just a little over two months along.”
Fallon felt himself redden. “Congratulations. Guess it’s true what they say about the glow, huh?” He switched his attention to Luther. “But that doesn’t explain why I’m picking up the same energy around you, Malone.”
Grace smiled. “We’re happy, Mr. Jones. You should try it sometime.”
She went out onto the landing. Luther followed her, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later Fallon watched them drive away, and he was alone again.
He used to like being alone. He needed to be alone. Most of the time.
He pulled his thoughts back to the present and contemplated the cheery light of the Sunshine Café. He’d called in Grace and Luther to give Isabella Valdez their seal of approval because for some bizarre reason he did not trust his own judgment. The uncertainty was not like him. He was usually confident in his own powers of logic and observation.
Grace and Luther might have cleared Isabella, but his own intuition was warning him that there were mysteries swirling around her.
After a while he went back to his desk, sat down and took another look at the newspaper article displayed on the computer. He routinely scanned the online editions of nearly two dozen West Coast dailies every morning, hoping for subtle indications of Nightshade activity. The organization was sophisticated and operated under deep cover. It did not engage in the kind of overt criminal activity that would be likely to draw the attention of the authorities.
But for some reason it was a routine crime story that had caught his attention recently. The piece had first appeared several days ago, but every morning he reread it. Something in the report sent tiny currents of awareness whispering through him. No matter how often he read it, though, he could not figure out what it was that triggered his senses.
SUSPECT IN KILLINSS FOUND DEAD. LAST VICTIM SURVIVES ATTACK.
Seattle: A man identified as Aaron Paul Hanney, believed to have been responsible for the rape and murder of at least two women, was found dead in an alley in the Capitol Hill neighborhood last night. A third woman, Sharon Billings, told police that she escaped Hanney thanks to the intervention of a passerby who confronted her attacker. Hanney collapsed and died at the scene. An autopsy has been ordered, but authorities said the cause of death appears to have been a heart attack.
Miss Billings gave a statement to the police. In it she said that she was unable to identify the man who came to her rescue due to the fact that the lighting was so poor.
Authorities are asking the man who went to the aid of Sharon Billings to contact the police immediately.
There was something important here, Fallon thought. But he did not have time to pursue it this afternoon. He closed the heavily encrypted laptop, rose, grabbed a leather jacket off the coatrack, and left the office.
He kept plenty of high-test coffee on hand. It was his drug of choice these days. But lately he’d gotten into the habit of going across the street to drink a couple of cups of coffee at the Sunshine while he made notes and organized his thoughts.
Outside on Scargill’s twisty little main street the air was chill and damp. He went toward the Sunshine, drawn by the aura of warmth and light.
Like a stupid moth to a flame, he thought.
4
THIS WAS NOT GOING WELL, JACK MUSED. CHLOE HARPER HAD concluded that he was delusional. He could see it in her eyes. He’d been called a variety of names, including ruthless, demanding and driven—Shannon had come up with all three descriptors just before she filed for divorce—but he was pretty sure that until now no one had considered him full-on crazy. Of course, until today he hadn’t told anyone that he was becoming a psychic monster, either.
Shouldn’t have tried to explain that I was Old Nick’s descendant. Why had he done that? He hadn’t intended to mention his ancestral connection to the lamp. That had been uncharacteristically stupid.
Shouldn’t have told her to name her price, either. That had been a serious mistake. She might well be the shady operator that the J&J files indicated but simple, straightforward greed was not her chief weakness. Her vulnerable spot lay in another direction altogether. He knew that for certain, because his talent had picked up the vibes two minutes after walking into her office.
Chloe Harper was a natural-born rescuer. She probably took on all sorts of deadbeat clients who never paid their bills. She was the type who fell for a good sob story. The tattooed receptionist had the old-beyond-her-years eyes of a young woman who had spent a lot of time living on the streets. The rangy mongrel sprawled in the corner had probably come from a shelter or the nearest alley.
The rescuer thing wasn’t what he had expected, but he could work with it. He felt a small twinge of guilt because he was preparing to manipulate her, but he knew he’d get over it. Besides, it wasn’t like he was here under false pretenses. He really did need rescuing. All he had to do was convince her of the truth, and he would regain control of the situation. He’d have her in the palm of his hand.
“I’ve got nowhere else to turn,” he said quietly. “You’re my only hope.”
“Really?”
Looking spectacularly unconvinced, she got up and walked around to the front of her desk. A trickle of unease sparked across his senses. Her change of position in the room had been very casual, maybe a little too smooth. He wondered if she was getting ready to sic the dog on him while she made a run for the door. Maybe he was scaring her. Not that she looked frightened, he thought. If anything, she appeared interested, maybe curious. Intrigued.
Interested, curious and intrigued didn’t begin to describe his reaction to her. Until he had walked into her office all he had known about her was what he’d lifted from the J&J files. Her entire family had an extensive and wide-ranging history with Arcane, very little of it reputable. He’d figured that was a plu
s for him. According to the files, she was ideal for his purposes, a strong dreamlight reader who had connections in the gray world of the underground collectors’ market. And she lived in Seattle. Talk about convenient. The other dreamlight talents he’d located on the West Coast were down in California.
Chloe was perfect.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the heat lightning of sexual awareness that had crackled through him when he saw her sitting there, prim and composed, behind her desk. It was as if some elemental force deep inside him was stirring. That was not good. What with the blackouts, the nightmares, the hallucinations and the very real possibility that he might have to go on the run for the rest of his weird life, he had enough to deal with. He definitely should not be thinking about sleeping with the private investigator he was trying to hire.
He sure as hell shouldn’t be wasting time trying to figure out what it was that attracted him to her, either. On the surface she looked like a stern, uptight school mistress. Not his type at all. Sharp, insightful intelligence animated vivid blue-green eyes and a face that otherwise would not have stood out in a crowd. Her sunset red hair was pulled back into a tight twist at the nape of her neck.
She was dressed in a businesslike black pantsuit with a white silk shell and a pair of black, high-heeled boots. Her jewelry was limited to a couple of small gold studs in her ears and a gold wristwatch with a black leather band. He estimated her to be in her early thirties, but there was no sign of a wedding band.
What had kicked him in the gut when he came through the door was the aura of energy about her. It translated directly into power, and power was always compelling, especially when it came in an unexpected package like Chloe Harper. He realized then that if he had simply passed her on the street, not knowing who she was, he would have looked twice. Make that three times. Turned around maybe. Followed her? Tried to introduce himself?
Oh, shit. This was not good. He did not need this kind of distraction. Not now. He should be concentrating on staying alive. There were priorities here.
Chloe lounged against the front edge of her desk, crossed one booted foot over the other and reached back very casually to brace her hands on the desktop behind her.
“About the old Winters legend,” she began.
She stiffened abruptly, gasped and snatched her hands off the desktop. Eyes widening a little, she turned to look at the place on the desk where one of his palms had been resting a moment ago.
Acting like she had just touched a red-hot stove, he thought. What was going on?
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine.” She sounded a little breathless. She slanted him a long, impossible-to-read look. “Very well, Mr. Winters,” she said briskly. “Tell me your story. But without the drama if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” He glanced at the desktop. “But would you mind telling me what gave you that shock just now?”
She frowned. “I’m a dreamlight reader.”
“I know. It’s in the J&J files. Your talent is one of the reasons I want to hire you. According to the old legends, it takes a woman who can read dreamlight to find the lamp and work it. Something about your kind of talent having an affinity for dream psi.”
“And just what do the agency’s files say about me and my talent?”
He shrugged. “According to what I dug up, the analysts estimate you to be a Level Seven or Eight.”
Her mouth twisted in a derisive little smile. “If I were you, Mr. Winters, I would not rely too heavily on the information in Arcane’s files. Not when it comes to me and my family.”
A chill went through him. “Are you a dreamlight reader?”
“Yes. But the talent is rare and not well understood, especially at the higher end of the scale. Arcane hasn’t had an opportunity to do much research on people like me. For obvious reasons I’ve never volunteered to be tested.”
“The Society has a few other dreamlight readers registered. I counted at least four on staff at various Arcane museums.”
“Yes, I know.” She gave him a cool, politely smug look. “But none of those four can see more than a limited portion of the ultralight spectrum from which dream psi emanates. I’m sure they do well enough when it comes to detecting fake artifacts and such. But I doubt if any of them can read the kind of details in dreamlight prints that I can read. It’s that ability that makes me a successful investigator, Mr. Winters.”
He smiled, amused by her air of confidence. “You’re good, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’m very good. Not only can I see a wide range of dreamprints, but I also can tell you a great deal about the individual who left the prints. To quote an old saying, Ye shall know them by their dreams.”
“Who said that?”
“My aunt Phyllis.”
“Is that right? So tell me, how does the ability to read dreamlight make you a good investigator?”
She raised one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Dreams create an energy field that is part of a person’s aura, but the wavelengths can only be seen by someone with my kind of talent. My intuition is linked to my ability. It interprets dreamlight in a very precise way. Intuition is what makes a good investigator.”
“How strong are you?” he asked.
“Everyone in my family thinks I’m probably off the charts.”
“How does this talent of yours work?”
She glanced down at the desk and drew a fingertip across the spot where his hand had been. This time she caught her breath a little, but she did not flinch.
“You know as well as I do that every living thing emits some psi,” she said. “People, even those at the bottom of the Jones Scale, the ones who think they have no talent at all, give off a considerable amount of energy even when they are in a calm state of mind.”
“Auras,” he said, a little impatient with the lecture.
“Yes. Strong aura-talents can read the energy emitted during the waking state. But humans also emit a lot of energy in the dreamstate. Even if we aren’t aware that we are dreaming and even if we forget our dreams the energy is nevertheless produced. We leave traces of it wherever we go and on whatever we touch.”
“And you can perceive that energy?”
“I see it in the form of psi prints, sort of like fingerprints and handprints. They give off various hues of ultralight.”
He looked at the place on the desk where he had flattened his hand earlier. “Learn anything interesting about me?”
“Yes, Mr. Winters, I did.” She took her fingertip off the desk and regarded him with bright curiosity. “Who or what did you kill recently?”
5
IF SHE HAD NOT BEEN WATCHING HIM CLOSELY, SHE WOULD never have noticed the small indications that told her just how much she had managed to stun him. The physical signs were minimal: a faint hardening of his jaw and some tightening around the mouth. For a second or two she could have sworn that his eyes heated up a little, and not with sexual interest this time. It seemed to her they actually became a darker, hotter shade of green, as if he was running a fever. She could have sworn she felt a soul-chilling whisper of energy at that moment. It raised the hair on the nape of her neck.
Hector whined softly. That made it official, she thought. They were both a little unnerved. Not frightened, not yet, at any rate, just tense and aware. Cautious, the way any sensible person and dog ought to be when they found themselves in the same room with a large beast of prey. Together she and Hector watched Jack.
The strange energy dissipated. Jack’s eyes were no longer feverish.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. His tone implied he had begun to suspect that he was conversing with someone who was out of the asylum on a day pass.
She braced herself for the jolt she knew was coming and brushed her fingertips across the desktop again. Hot, acid-hued ultralight splashed through her senses, the colors of violence. But there were other hues glowing fierce and bright, as well. And it was those shades of light and dark that
reassured her. Jack could be scary, she knew, but he was in full control.
“You confronted something monstrous,” she said, working her way through it. “And you destroyed it.” She hesitated, processing a little more light. “I think you were protecting someone else. Is he or she okay?”
Jack did not move. “You’re making this up.”
“The remnants of the violence are still simmering inside you. That kind of energy takes a while to cool down. It never entirely dissipates. It just recedes into the dream wavelengths. Ten, twenty, fifty years from now someone with my kind of talent will be able to pick up your prints in this office. And you’ll still dream about whatever happened from time to time.”
“If you really believe what you’re saying, I’m surprised you aren’t running from this room, yelling for the cops.”
“I’m not running because I know that, whatever occurred, you were trying to defend someone else. What happened? Were you and your date attacked?”
“No.”
“You fought him off, didn’t you? And you killed him.” She touched the desktop again and watched the light show with her other senses, picking up more nuances. “You killed him with your talent.”
“I’m a strat,” he said without inflection.
She frowned. “Being a strat would make you very good at plotting someone’s death, if that was your goal. But you couldn’t actually kill with your kind of talent. At least, I’ve never heard of any strat-sensitive who could do that.”
Another couple of heartbeats passed. Then, to her surprise, Jack nodded once, as though he had made a decision.
“I did mention the Winters family curse,” he said. “I am a strat. A strong one. It was my talent that helped me find you. But thanks to Nicholas Winters and his damned alchemical experiments with dreamlight radiation, I’m becoming something else as well.”
She frowned. “Everyone knows that people can’t develop two equally powerful talents, at least not at the higher ranges. Something about the human mind’s inability to handle so much psi stimulation. It’s hard enough to control a single very high level talent.”