by Jayne Castle
Emmett nodded. The two hunters swore that, in her eagerness to explore the newly discovered antechamber, Lydia had gone ahead without waiting for them or any of the other members of the team. The conclusion of the report had been blunt: she had gotten herself into trouble.
He watched her twirl pasta around the tines of her fork. "Must have been an illusion trap. If it had been a real monster ghost the two hunters would have detected traces of energy in the vicinity."
"So they say." She ate some pasta.
"Are you telling me that you don't believe the hunters' version of events?" Emmett asked very neutrally.
She put down her fork. "I'm saying I don't know what happened. I've got no clear memories of what occurred in that antechamber. I've been forced to take the word of the others who were on the team that day."
"No clear memories?" Emmett watched her closely. "A moment ago you said that you couldn't remember anything about the forty-eight hours you spent in the catacombs."
She said nothing for a time, just looked at him. In the light of the candle her face was shrouded in mystery. He thought about what it must have been like to lose forty-eight hours out of your life and then wake up in the endless green night of an alien catacomb without amber. A lot of people who got lost underground never returned. Those who did find their way out were usually so psychically traumatized that they wound up in para-rez wards for a long time.
For a few seconds he thought Lydia was not going to respond to his question. Then she appeared to come to some inner decision.
"I've never told anyone else, but lately I think I've been getting little bits of memory." She gazed into the heart of the candle flame. "The only problem is, I can't make them out. It's like catching a glimpse of a ghost, the old-fashioned, horror-story kind—a shade or a phantom, not a UDEM."
"Have you gone back to the doctors?"
Her mouth twisted. "The last thing I need is another note in my para-psych file telling the world that I'm showing increasing signs of post-para-traumatic stress. I've already lost one good job because of the shrinks' report."
"And because the chairman of your former department was not willing to give you a chance to prove the doctors were wrong," Emmett reminded her.
"Ryan and I used to be colleagues. He got promoted to chair of the department one month after my Lost Weekend. That's when he apparently decided that I'm too fragile to do my job."
"I see."
"I can't really blame him. Everyone in the department is convinced that no tangler can go through what I did and come out of it with all para-faculties intact. No one wants to work on a team with someone who's—" She broke off to twirl her fingers in a circle. "You know, unreliable. A team member who loses her nerve or her edge in the Dead City puts everyone else in danger."
Emmett thought about how he had found her repainting her bedroom wall that morning to remove scorch marks left by a ghost. Whoever had summoned the UDEM must have known about her terrifying experience six months ago, he reflected. Most people could be expected to panic at the sight of a wild ghost, no matter how small, in their own homes. Anyone who had spent forty-eight hours alone in the catacombs would be especially vulnerable to that kind of small-scale terror.
Before this was over, he thought, he would very much like to get his hands on the hunter who had coldbloodedly attempted to frighten her.
"If it makes any difference," he said, "I don't think you're delicate or fragile or inclined to fracture under stress. In my opinion, you are one very gutsy lady."
"Hey, that's great." She smiled with iron-willed intent. "I'm so glad you think I can do my job. Because we've got a contract and I'm not going to let you fire me."
He groaned. "So we're back to that, are we?"
"Sorry." She took another bite of pasta. "But it is the subject that is uppermost in my mind tonight."
"Lydia, you're missing the point here. I'm the reason someone sent that ghost to your bedroom last night. Don't you get it? If you continue to work with me, there may be other incidents. Someone is trying to make it plain that he or she doesn't want you to help me search for the cabinet."
"True. I wonder why not?"
He shrugged. "It's obvious. Whoever is behind this is afraid that the cabinet will lead me to Quinn. From now on, I have to go on the assumption that someone doesn't want me to find him."
She tapped one glossy green-and-gold-tinted nail against her plate. "If there is someone out there who feels that strongly about it, your nephew may be in serious danger."
"Yes. Until now, I've assumed he was just a lovestruck kid with rampaging hormones chasing after a girlfriend. But after what happened in your bedroom last night—"
"You need me, Emmett." She aimed the fork at him. "Admit it. You need all the help you can get."
"Maybe. But I don't want to be responsible for putting you in danger."
"That didn't worry you when you believed that I was working with Chester."
"That's different."
"No, it's not. Nothing has changed except that you no longer think I know the whereabouts of your cabinet. Look, I'm an adult and I'm a professional. I can make my own decisions."
"Lydia—"
"I won't let you push me out of this, Emmett. I need this job and you need me. I'm going to continue looking for your cabinet, regardless of what you choose to do."
"There's a word for that kind of threat."
"Yeah. Blackmail. You can't stop me. If there is any real danger involved, it will be safer for both of us if we work together. We should share information."
He studied her for a long moment. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she meant every word. She would continue to search for the cabinet, with or without his permission. He should have known that it was not going to be easy to fire her.
"All right," he said after a while. "Okay. You win."
She felt triumphant.
"But as you said," he continued evenly, "it will be safer if we work together."
"Right. No problem. I'll keep you informed—"
"You should be reasonably safe during the days while you're at the museum," he said, talking straight over the top of her eager promise. "There's obviously a renegade ghost-hunter involved in this somewhere, but he isn't likely to try to terrorize you when there are witnesses around."
She quirked a brow. "No?"
"I doubt it. Too much chance of getting caught. Hunters have to work at close range, you know that. Even a strong, well-trained, very experienced one can't summon a ghost and manipulate it from more than half a city block away, even when he's working near the Old Wall. And I don't think we're dealing with a well-trained one here."
"You sound like an authority on the subject," she said coolly.
"Use your head. You know as well as I do that it's illegal to summon ghosts outside the Dead City. Any renegade hunter doing so risks drawing the attention of the Guild authorities. They tend to frown on that kind of thing."
"Especially if there's no profit in it for the Guild," Lydia shot back. "But what if he's not a renegade? What if he's working for the Guild?"
"You really don't hold ghost-hunters in high esteem, do you?"
"Let's just say that I don't think the Guild is above allowing its members to get involved in a few personal financial adventures on the side, provided, of course, that they cut the Guild in for a percentage."
"Are all para-archaeologists here in Cadence that cynical about the Guild?"
"No." She dunked a chunk of bread into the olive oil. "A few of my former colleagues think hunters are sort of sexy, believe it or not. They've actually had affairs with some of them. My friend Melanie Toft at Shrimpton's told me that she once dated a hunter for several weeks."
For a few seconds he thought she must be teasing him. Then he realized she was serious. "I take it the idea of having an affair with a hunter doesn't appeal to you?"
She blew that off with a wave of her hand and bit down on the bread. "Forget my personal opinions on the s
ubject. We've got more important things to worry about."
"All right. As I said, I'm not too concerned about the days, provided you're willing to follow some reasonable precautions. It's the nights that are a problem."
"So?"
"So," he said deliberately, "if you insist on carrying out the terms of our contract, as of tonight you've got a roommate."
She gaped at him in stunned silence. Maybe it hadn't occurred to her that he could play tough too, he thought. Damned if he would let her blackmail him without paying a price.
Not a very big price, of course. Her dumbfounded expression was no doubt as much satisfaction as he would get.
Chapter 9
"Don't you think you're overreacting here, London?"
"No." Emmett reached into the backseat of the Slider to retrieve his small duffel bag.
On the way back to Lydia's apartment, he had stopped off at his hotel long enough to collect the things he figured he would need tonight. A razor, a change of clothes, and the other small paraphernalia a man required for an overnight stay in a lady's home.
He would pick up the rest of his stuff in the morning when he checked out of the hotel. Assuming he did check out. There was, he assured himself, always the possibility that Lydia would lose her enthusiasm for this consulting job after she discovered what it was really like to give up her sofa and share her bathroom. Her apartment, after all, was very small.
"Well, if you're going to be stubborn about it—"
"I am," he assured her. "Stubbornness is one of my most distinctive personality traits."
"I believe it." She threw him a pointed look and jerked the door handle.
He popped open his own door and got out of the car. Automatically, he examined the small, ill-lit parking lot. It was crowded tonight. Tenants' vehicles, the majority displaying worn paint and battered fenders, loomed in the shadows. A large refuse container occupied one of the spaces near the side wall. It was filled to overflowing. Empty cardboard boxes that had apparently not fit into the bin were stacked beside it.
There was an air of resignation about the Dead City View Apartments. It was as if everyone inside had abandoned all hope of upward mobility.
Everyone except Lydia. It didn't take much to figure out why she was reluctant to let go of him as a client. It wasn't just the money. He'd offered to buy his way out of the contract. He was certain that she had her own agenda, no doubt aimed at getting herself back underground and working in the catacombs. He was her ticket out of Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors.
He walked beside her to the door with the broken security lock. "I assume you've mentioned this to your landlord?"
"In the same letter in which I mentioned the broken elevator and several other problems," she assured him.
They started up the first flight of stairs.
"I'll get the lock repaired first thing tomorrow," he said.
She glanced at him in surprise as they turned up the second flight. "It's not your problem."
"It is now. You could say I've got a vested interest in security in this building."
She looked as if she wanted to object, but in the end she did not comment. Probably wanted to save her breath for the long climb to the fifth floor, he thought.
He didn't blame her. On the third landing he glanced at her. "How long has the elevator been out?"
"Couple of months. It was never what you'd call reliable, even before that."
"No wonder you're in such good shape."
"Thanks. I guess." She gave him a strange look. "Staying with me means you're going to have to climb these stairs on a regular basis. I wouldn't count on Driffield getting the elevator fixed anytime soon."
"You're not going to scare me off that easily," he replied.
She groaned. "I was afraid of that."
They made it to the fifth floor side by side, then headed down the dark corridor.
"Maybe I'll see about getting some new bulbs for the overhead lights in this hall too," Emmett said.
"What are you, Mr. Fixit?"
"I've always sort of enjoyed fixing things—" Emmett broke off as he caught the telltale trace of ghost energy.
"Ah, shit." He dropped the duffel. "Give me your key."
"What?" She had her apartment key out, but she made no move to hand it over. "What's wrong?"
"Give it to me." He snapped the key out of her hand and started forward. "Stay here."
He did not wait to see if she would obey orders. It was probably a fifty-fifty proposition at best. He got the feeling she did not take direction well.
But there was no time to enforce the directive. Unstable dissonance energy shimmered in the vicinity. The odds that it was seeping out of Lydia's apartment were much too good.
He made the door, shoved the key into the lock, rezzed it with a small pulse of psi power, and twisted the knob.
A poisonous green glow spilled through the opening.
He slammed the door wide and saw the ghost.
The garbage-lid-size ball of green throbbed in the corner. In the eerie glare Emmett could see the two figures against the wall. Zane was curled into a hard, tight ball. Fuzz's hunting eyes gleamed from the shelter of his arm. Small white fangs glistened. Neither could move. The leading edge of the ghost's energy spasms was only inches from Zane's arm as he struggled to protect Fuzz.
Emmett concentrated briefly. Sought and found the violent energy pattern of the UDEM. It was uncomplicated and weak. The work of an untrained, inexperienced amateur. That did not mean it could not do some unpleasant damage if it touched Zane or Fuzz.
He resonated for a few seconds with the wildfire energy that was the essence of a ghost. When he was fully tuned to it, he sent out the dissonant psychic waves that would disrupt and destroy the harmonic resonance pattern. The amber in his watch warmed slightly.
The ghost flared, winked out, and disappeared as though it had never existed.
In the sudden darkness Zane and Fuzz were no more than shadows in the corner.
"Zane?"
"He's in the bedroom," Zane whispered, his voice strained and hoarse. He lurched to his feet. "He's got a knife, Mr. London. He said he'd gut Fuzz if I even—"
"Get out of here. Take Fuzz. Go."
Zane did not argue. Clutching the dust-bunny, he ran toward the open door. Fuzz's amber hunting eyes blazed in the darkness.
"Zane," Lydia shouted from the doorway, "what happened? Are you all right?"
"Sure, Lyd."
Metal scraped. The sound emanated from the bedroom, echoing loudly in the dark hall. Emmett remembered the window. It was five stories above the ground, but only a short distance from the roof.
It was a risk, but if the intruder was sufficiently agile and sufficiently bold, he might figure that he could wriggle out the window and scramble up to the roof.
The front door was the only other way out of the apartment.
Emmett went down the hall, listening carefully.
Another scrape, followed by a dull thud. The intruder had gotten the window open.
Emmett flattened his body against the wall beside the doorway and gathered himself to go in low and fast.
"Emmett." Lydia's slender figure materialized at the other end of the hall, blocking some of the light. "What do you think you're doing? For God's sake, get out of there. Zane says he's got a knife."
Without warning fresh ghost energy sizzled in the hallway, inches away from Emmett. A poisonous green glow announced the new UDEM. Smaller this time, Emmett noted. The intruder was weakening. Or maybe he was distracted with the task of trying to escape.
"Look out," Lydia shouted.
Zane bounced up and down behind her. "Holy shit, another ghost! Watch this, Lydia."
Emmett concentrated briefly and then swatted the new ghost with a pulse of psi energy.
"Man, that is so dissonant," Zane crowed. The fear that had underscored his words a moment earlier had been replaced with excitement. "Did you see what Mr. London did?"
/> Emmett did not hang around to catch Lydia's response. This far from the ruins, it was harder to conjure a ghost than it was to banish one. The use of so much psychic energy drained the body's resources quickly.
The intruder had wasted a lot of his strength on the task of summoning the second UDEM, strength that he should have saved for crawling through the window. There would never be a better opportunity to take him.
Emmett shot through the doorway into the bedroom.
The ghost-hunter had one leg through the open window. The dark outline of his body was clearly visible against the night sky. He scrabbled wildly, trying to find leverage.
Emmett seized one booted foot and yanked hard. The hunter tumbled back into the room and landed on the carpet with a heavy thump.
The man stared up at him through the eyeholes in his stocking mask. Moonlight gleamed on the knife in his hand. Emmett circled warily, watching for an opening. The hunter rolled once and surged to his feet.
He made no move to close with Emmett.
"Stay back, you sonofabitch," he warned. He shifted toward the door of the bedroom. "Just stay outta my way and nobody will get hurt."
He was tightly wound, Emmett thought. Not in full control. Maybe having two of his ghosts neutralized in quick succession had made him nervous.
"What are you doing here?" Emmett moved toward him, staying just out of range of the knife. "What the hell is this all about?"
"None of your business." The hunter made a short, brutal, slashing motion with the knife. "Get back, damn it."
"Talk to me," Emmett said quietly. "Or you'll end up talking to the cops and to the Guild."
The hunter laughed, a harsh bark of sound. "The cops can't hurt me, and the Guild can't touch me."
He was at the doorway now. He eased through it, into the hall, never taking his eyes off Emmett.
"You were the one who summoned the ghost here last night weren't you?" Emmett kept his voice casual, almost conversational. "Why the warning to Lydia?"
"Shut up. I'm not answering any of your stupid questions." He risked a hasty glance over his shoulder, apparently checking to see that the path was clear.
When he turned back, Emmett had a ghost waiting for him. A big one.
