by Jayne Castle
Until six months ago, she had been advancing quickly through the hierarchy of the academic world. It had been only a matter of time before she made full professor in the Department of Para-archaeology.
And then came the disaster.
Her only clear recollection of what she privately called her Lost Weekend was that of coming to in a Dead City catacomb and discovering that not only was she alone but she had somehow lost her amber. Without it she faced the nearly impossible task of finding her way to one of the exits.
But Fuzz found her. She had never figured out how he got out of the apartment, let alone prowled the Dead City until he discovered her. But he had. He had saved her life.
She was not the first strong para-archaeologist to lose control and be overwhelmed by the alien nightmares enmeshed in the traps, but she was one of the few who had not wound up in an institution after the ordeal.
Lydia removed Fuzz from her shoulder and dumped him on the bed while she changed clothes. If it weren't for his bright blue eyes he could have been mistaken for a large ball of lint sitting on the quilt.
"Bad news on the client front today, Fuzz. Looks like we won't be moving into that spiffy new apartment at the end of the month after all. And I may have to cut back your pretzel ration."
Fuzz rumbled again. He watched without much interest as she kicked off her low-heeled shoes and climbed out of her business suit.
She pulled on a pair of well-worn jeans and an oversized white shirt, then resettled Fuzz on her shoulder.
Barefoot, she padded into her pint-size kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine from the twist-cap jug she kept in the refrigerator, and fixed a plate with a couple of crackers and some cheese. She removed the lid from the pretzel jar and grabbed a handful of munchies for Fuzz.
When that was done, she carried the makeshift hors d'oeuvres and the wine out onto the minuscule deck. Sinking into one of the loungers, she fed a pretzel to Fuzz, propped her feet on the railing, and settled back to watch the sun go down behind the great green quartz wall that surrounded the Dead City.
Her small apartment was overpriced, considering its size, the outdated kitchen, and the bad section of town in which it was located, but it had two important features. The first was that it was within walking distance of Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors, which meant she did not have to buy a car. The second, and in some ways more important, feature was that it was located in the Old Quarter, near the western wall of the Dead City. From her balcony she had a tiny sliver of a view of the ruins of the Dead City of Old Cadence.
It seemed to her that the ancient, mysterious metropolis was at its most hauntingly magnificent when it was silhouetted against the light of the dying sun. She contemplated the narrow wedge of the wall that she could see from the balcony and watched the last of the daylight illuminate the emerald glow of the stone. The nearly indestructible green quartz had been the Harmonics' favorite building material. The four dead cities that had been discovered thus far—Old Frequency, Old Resonance, Old Crystal, and Old Cadence—had all been constructed of the stuff.
Aboveground the architecture of the various alien buildings assumed a dazzling variety of fanciful shapes and sizes. No one knew how the Harmonics had actually used any of the structures that were being painstakingly uncovered by the archaeological teams contracted to the university.
The only thing para-archaeologists could be sure of was that whatever had gone on aboveground in the eerie ruins, it was nothing compared to what had gone on underground. By several estimates, less than twenty percent of the catacombs had been explored. Illusion traps and energy ghosts made the work slow and fraught with danger.
She had told the doctors that she had no memories at all of what had happened during the forty-eight hours she had spent in the glowing green catacombs, but that was not entirely true. Sometimes, when she sat on her deck like this and watched night descend on the Dead City, fleeting images came to hover at the farthest corners of her mind. The wraiths always stayed just out of sight, disappearing whenever she tried to draw them into the light of day.
A part of her was more than content, even eager, to leave them in the shadows. But her intuition warned her that if she did not eventually find a way to expose them, the phantoms would haunt her until the end of her days.
She sipped her wine, gazed at the green wall, and felt the familiar little shivers go down her spine.
The knock on her door startled her so profoundly that wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.
Fuzz rumbled in annoyance.
"Could be Driffield." Lydia sucked the drops off her fingers as she got to her feet. "Maybe he got my last letter threatening to call a lawyer and decided he'd better do something about the elevator. Naw, I can't see him climbing five flights of steps to tell me he's going to get it fixed."
With Fuzz on her shoulder, she went back into the apartment and crossed the miniature living room. When she reached the door she stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.
Emmett London stood in the hall. He did not appear to be breathing hard after the five-story climb.
For a few seconds she just stared, unable to believe her eyes. Emmett gazed calmly back. He was not exactly smiling, but there was a trace of amusement in his expression. He was obviously aware that he was being observed.
She noticed that he had picked up the evening edition of the Cadence Star, which had been left on her doorstep, and held it absently in one hand. She could read the headline of the lead story: museum assistant questioned in MURDER.
She wondered if London had stopped by to tell her just how much he disliked being connected to a murder investigation.
Taking a deep breath, she summoned up enough bravado to open the door.
"Mr. London." She gave him her best professional smile. "What a surprise. I wasn't expecting you."
"I was in the neighborhood," he said dryly.
Not bloody likely, she thought. Hers was not the sort of neighborhood that attracted upscale businessmen who were inclined to worry about getting mugged.
On the other hand, something told her that Emmett didn't fret too much about street crime. He looked quite capable of taking care of himself.
Fuzz rumbled. It wasn't a wamin&. The dust-bunny sounded inquisitive.
"I see." Lydia looked at the newspaper in Emmett's hand. "It really wasn't necessary to go out of your way to tell me that you've changed your mind about hiring me as a consultant. I already assumed I wouldn't get the job."
"Did you?"
"You, uh, indicated that you were real big on discretion. I sort of figured that what with the dead body and the cops and the evening headlines, you might conclude that discretion wasn't my strong point."
"Apparently not." He glanced back along the shabby hallway and then looked at her. "I would prefer not to continue this conversation out here in the hall. May I come in?"
"Huh?" At first she thought she had misunderstood.
"You want to come inside?"
"If you don't mind."
She flushed and hurriedly stepped back. "Oh, sure, sure. Please, come on in."
"Thank you."
When he moved into the foyer, he made no more noise than Fuzz did. That was where the resemblance ended, Lydia decided. Emmett London did not in the least resemble a dust-bunny blowing across the floor. There was nothing haphazard, fluffy, or scruffy about him.
He looked like someone who made his own rules. The expression in his uncompromising eyes and the severe lines of his face told her that he also lived by those rules. An ominous sign, she thought. In her experience, people who adhered to a rigid code were not particularly flexible.
Emmett studied Fuzz with a thoughtful expression as Lydia closed the door. "I assume he bites?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Fuzz is perfectly harmless."
"Is he?"
"As long as all you can see are his daylight eyes, there's nothing to be concerned about. The only time you have to worry about a dust-bunny is when he s
tops looking like a wad of dryer lint."
Emmett raised his brows. "They say that by the time you see the teeth it's too late."
"Yes, well—as I said, there's no need to be alarmed. Fuzz won't bite."
"I'll take your word for it."
The conversation was deteriorating, Lydia thought. She needed a distraction. "I just poured myself some wine. Will you join me?"
"Yes, thank you."
She relaxed slightly. Maybe he wasn't here to tell her that he was annoyed with her for getting him involved with the cops. Surely he wouldn't accept an offer of hospitality and then inform her that he was going to sue her and Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors.
Then again, maybe he would do exactly that.
"When I heard your knock, I thought you were my landlord." She went into the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator, and removed the jug of wine. "I've been after him to get the elevator fixed. It isn't working—but I expect you noticed."
Emmett came to stand in the doorway. "I noticed."
"Driffield is a lousy landlord." She poured the wine into a glass. "I'm trying to get enough cash together to move soon. In the meantime, he and I are locked in an ongoing war. So far he's winning. I've given him so much trouble lately that I have a hunch he's looking for an excuse to evict me."
"I understand."
Oh, sure. She seriously doubted that anyone had ever tried to evict Emmett London, but she decided it would probably not be politic to say so.
"Enough about me," she said smoothly. "It's a dull subject. Let's go out onto the balcony. I've got a view of the ruins."
He followed her outside and carefully lowered himself into the other lounger.
It was amazing how much smaller her treasured balcony seemed with him occupying such a large portion of the limited space. It wasn't that he was an especially big man, she thought. He probably qualified as medium on most counts. Medium height, medium build. It was just that what there was of him was awfully concentrated.
She had a feeling that with Emmett, like Fuzz, by the time you saw the teeth it was too late.
In spite of having spent nearly half an hour with him this morning, she knew little more about him than she had when he'd called her office and made the appointment. He had told her only that he was a business consultant from Resonance City who collected antiquities.
"We didn't have a chance to finish our conversation this morning," Emmett said.
Lydia thought about Chester's body in the sarcophagus and sighed. "No."
"I'll come straight to the point. I need a good P-A and I think you'll do."
She stared at him. Apparently he wasn't going to sue her, after all. "You still want to hire me? In spite of the fact that I got you into the evening papers?"
"I'm not in the papers." He sampled the wine. "Detective Martinez very kindly refrained from giving my name to the press."
She whistled softly. "Lucky you."
"Luck had nothing to do with it."
She relaxed slightly. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm really very good at what I do."
"I'm glad to hear that." His smile lacked all trace of true humor. "It's not like I've got a lot of choice."
That gave her pause. She recalled Melanie's question that afternoon. Why hadn't he gone to the Society or to a classy museum to find a para-archaeologist?
She cleared her throat. "I don't want to talk myself out of a job, Mr. London, but you do seem to be, for want of a better phrase, financially comfortable."
He shrugged. "I'm rich, if that's what you mean."
"Yeah, that's what I mean. Let's be honest here. With your money you could go to the Society of Para-archaeologists and pick a private consultant who has established a reputation with big-time collectors."
"I know," he said simply. "But I need one who isn't too particular."
She chilled. "Too particular about what?"
"About getting involved in the illegal side of the antiquities trade."
Lydia went very still. "Oh, damn. I knew you were too good to be true."
Chapter 3
HE HAD NOT handled that well. Emmett realized his mistake immediately. Lydia looked as if she had been flash-frozen in her chair. She did not move so much as a single muscle.
The dust-bunny on her shoulder stirred, but since it didn't open its second pair of eyes Emmett figured he was safe for the moment.
Lydia's lagoon-blue eyes gleamed with anger, however. It was probably just his imagination or maybe a trick of the evening light, but he could have sworn that her red-gold hair had turned an even more fiery shade. Unlike the dust-bunny, she did look dangerous.
"Perhaps I should explain," he said gently.
"Don't bother. I get the picture." She narrowed her eyes. "You're under the impression that I'm a thief? That I deal in illicit antiquities?"
Obviously a bit of diplomacy was required at this juncture, Emmett decided.
"I think you have connections in the underground market here in Cadence," he said deliberately. "I need those contacts, and I'm willing to pay well for them."
She slammed down her wineglass. "I am not a ruin rat. I'm a respectable member of the Society of Para-archaeologists. Okay, so I haven't worked on any licensed excavation teams lately, but I am in good standing with the Society. I've got enough academic credentials to paper a wall, and I've worked with some of the most noted experts in Cadence. How dare you imply—"
"My mistake." He held up one hand to silence her. "I apologize."
She was clearly not mollified. "If you want to hire a thief, Mr. London, I suggest you go elsewhere."
"I don't want to hire a thief, Miss Smith. I want to find one. Preferably with as little publicity as possible. To do that, I figured I'd need someone who knew the underground side of the antiquities business."
"I see." Her voice was as brittle as glass. "What made you think that I could help you?"
"I did a little research."
"You mean you went looking for a P-A who was not employed by a legitimate excavation team?"
He shrugged and took a sip of the truly awful wine. He congratulated himself on not wincing.
Lydia's smile was getting colder by the second. "Did you work on the assumption that any P-A who could not get respectable employment on a team or in a museum must be involved in the illegal trade?"
"It seemed like a reasonable theory. I regret any misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings?" She leaned forward slightly. "Calling me a thief comes under the heading of insults, not misunderstandings."
"If it makes any difference, I'm not especially concerned with your professional ethics."
"It makes a difference, all right," she said ominously. "A big difference."
"Be fair, Miss Smith. No one expects to find a legitimate para-archaeologist working at a place like Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors." He paused. "And then there was that business with the body in the sarcophagus this morning."
"I knew you were going to hold that against me." She flung out a hand in disgust. "One lousy body and you leap to the conclusion that I'm up to my ears in the illegal trade."
"It wasn't finding the body that made me think you might have some contacts in the business, it was the fact that you seemed well acquainted with the victim. I'm told that, among other things, Chester Brady was a ruin rat."
Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. "Oh." After a moment she settled wearily back into her chair. "I suppose that could lead a person to some inaccurate conclusions."
"I appreciate your cutting me some slack on that point." He took another cautious swallow of wine and pondered the razor-thin view of the Old Wall. "So how did you come to know Brady?"
Lydia slanted him a meditative glance. Out of the corner of his eye he studied her expressive, intelligent face. He got the feeling that she was debating just how much to tell him. He would no doubt get the highly edited version of the story, he thought. She had no reason to confide in him.
; Not that he didn't already know a good deal about her. In the past twenty-four hours he had made it a point to learn a lot. He was aware of the two days she'd spent trapped underground in the Dead City six months ago. His people in Resonance had briefed him on her medical reports—reports that were supposed to be private and confidential but that were extraordinarily easy to come by if you had money and connections. He had plenty of both.
This morning when he'd walked into her office and seen the gutsy determination in her eyes, he'd immediately dismissed the opinions of the para-rez psychiatrists. Whatever else she was, Lydia was not weak or delicate. He knew another fighter when he saw one.
The little rush of pure sexual awareness that went through him in that first moment was a warning. He had chosen to ignore it. That, he reflected, might not have been one of his smarter decisions. But he knew himself well enough to realize that he was not going to change his mind.
"I met Chester a few years ago," Lydia said after a while. "He was a strong ephemeral-energy para-resonator."
"A tangler?"
"Yes. But he came from nothing. No family, no proper schooling. He never went to the university. Never studied archaeology the way most good tanglers do. He was never allowed into the Society."
"That's not exactly a mark against him. Everyone knows the Society of Para-archaeologists is as arrogant and elitist as they come."
She glowered. "I agree that the Society is inclined to be a bit stiff-necked, academically speaking. But it's because of their high standards and strict admission requirements that tanglers haven't got the same disreputable public image as those ghost-hunters in the Guilds."
"The Guilds have standards," he made himself say in a neutral tone.
"Hah. What the Guilds have are bosses who run things the way gangster bosses run their gangs, and everyone knows it. In this town, the Guild boss is Mercer Wyatt, and I can assure you that whatever standards he imposes have nothing to do with academic qualifications or credentials."
Emmett contemplated the bright flash of anger that lit her eyes. "It's no secret that there's a lot of professional rivalry between hunters and tanglers, but you seem to have taken it to an extreme."
