After Dark

by Jayne Castle

  “What’s wrong?” Emmett asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She removed the jar from the sack again and hefted it in her bare hands. She sent out a gentle psychic probe. Her amber bracelet grew warm against her skin. Cautiously, she felt for the harmonic pulse of the energy that emanated from the jar.

  The amber grew warmer. A small chill went through her. “Oh, jeez.”

  Emmett moved closer, intent on her face. “What are you picking up? The age of the thing?”

  “No. Something else. Remember, last night I told you it felt strange? Almost like a bit of illusion trap energy. I thought it was just something unique to dreamstone. But now I’m not so sure.”

  He glanced at the jar, and then his eyes lifted swiftly to meet hers. She saw that he understood the implications of what she had just said.

  “Not ghost energy,” he said with absolute certainty. “I’d sense it more clearly than you would.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Illusion energy.”

  “Illusion traps are very rare outside the catacombs.”

  She nodded mutely. He was right. Even so, she could not help looking around the vault room. She studied every corner intently, amplifying and focusing her para-resonating senses through the amber bracelet. She saw no pools of darkness in the corners. There were no inexplicable shadows under the table or near the ceiling.

  Of course there weren’t any illusion snares in here, she thought. They were standing in the middle of the Cadence City Bank, for crying out loud.

  But the amber in her bracelet was very warm against her skin. Traces of energy shimmered in the room.

  She looked down at the jar. Then she looked at Emmett.

  “Something to do with worked dreamstone, maybe?” Emmett asked. “Some property that we don’t know about because no human has been able to manipulate the stuff?”

  She held the artifact up to the light. “There’s a lid, I think. It really should be removed in a lab. I don’t want to risk damaging the jar.”

  “It’s lasted this long,” Emmett reminded her. “It can’t be too fragile.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  She set the jar on the table and very gingerly pried at the tightly closed lid. To her surprise it came off easily. She found herself looking down into the dark—very dark—interior of the little artifact.

  “Hmm.”

  She picked up the jar and angled it so that light from the overhead fixture shafted into the interior. It could not penetrate the darkness. There was no gleam or sparkle from the dreamstone inside the jar. Just thick, impenetrable, black mist.

  There were two possibilities, she thought. She was either losing it, para-rez-wise, just as Ryan and the others suspected, or she was holding a jar filled with an illusion trap.

  “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “The real thing?” Emmett asked quietly.

  “Yeah. Not much of it. Just enough to fit inside this jar.”

  He hadn’t questioned her judgment, she thought. He’d accepted her verdict even though he had every right to doubt it.

  He watched as she very carefully set the jar back down on the table. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Like everyone else, I’ve never seen much of this stuff outside the Dead City. The very fact that it exists inside this jar may mean that this trap is different from the others I’ve worked with. It must be anchored somehow to the dreamstone. Only one way to find out.”

  He looked at her over the top of the jar. “Go for it.”

  “Might be better if you stepped into the other room. Just in case.”

  “Not a chance. I’m staying right here.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She took another breath and concentrated on sending psi energy through the amber on her wrist. The stones warmed quickly again. The unmistakable pulse of resonating energy vibrated through her. Weak, but steady and clear.

  “It’s such a small trap,” she whispered. “It’s only giving off a trickle of energy.”

  “Even a trickle can cause some very unpleasant effects,” Emmett warned.

  She said nothing. They had both worked in the catacombs. They knew what the ancient Harmonic snares could do. Alien dreams. Alien nightmares.

  She channeled psi energy steadily through the amber while she gazed down into the palpable night inside the jar. After a few seconds she saw something stir in the depths. The dark itself appeared to be condensing and coalescing. It was reacting to the pulses of energy she was forcing through it. If she screwed up at this stage, she could all too easily spring the trap.

  If she triggered the illusion trap, she would have only about one second to realize she was in trouble. There would be no time to do anything about it. The darkness would snap back along the psi-frequencies that she herself had provided it. The stuff would swamp her mind before she could react.

  If it was sufficiently powerful, the snare would not only plunge her into a disorienting illusion that her human mind could not accept for long but it would use her own psi energy to trap anyone else who had the misfortune to be standing nearby. Emmett, for example.

  How long the nightmare would last or what form it would take was anyone’s guess. Given the size of the trap, one could only hope that the dream it produced would be correspondingly limited and short-lived.

  But she knew that even if it lasted for only a few minutes, it would take days to recover.

  Using her para-rez senses, she edged deeper into the little patch of darkness. She sifted through the cloaking ephemeral energy until she caught the telltale echo of resonance. She fine-tuned her probe, found the hidden design inside the masking pattern, and fed energy into it, dampening the wave motion.

  Slowly, carefully, she began to adjust the resonance frequency of the trap. It grew weaker, flattened.

  The darkness inside the jar winked out abruptly.

  Lydia released the breath she had not realized she was holding. She looked up and saw Emmett grinning at her.

  “Nice work,” he said.

  It was then that the elation ripped through her. This was the first time she’d had a chance to work illusion trap energy since the Lost Weekend. The first time she’d been able to prove to herself that she still had her harmonic pitch. She hadn’t lost her edge.

  She tried to stay cool, tried not to let her bubbling excitement show. “It’s been a while,” she said offhandedly. “I was afraid I might be a little rusty.”

  “Rusty, hell. Screw the whole damn University of Cadence Department of Para-archaeology and the ghost they rode in on. You haven’t lost your touch.”

  She gave up trying to squelch the delight and relief that were surging within her. With a small shriek, she flung herself into Emmett’s arms. They closed swiftly around her.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered into the fabric of his jacket. “I really am okay. I can still handle the stuff.” She was laughing now.

  He hoisted her off her feet and laughed with her. “You can say that again.” He slid her back down the length of his body and kissed her hard.

  For a moment she clung to him, savoring the triumphant, congratulatory embrace. She knew then that there was no one, no one else at all, with whom she would rather have celebrated that moment.

  When the initial blast of euphoria finally began to subside, she became conscious of the fact that she was kissing Emmett in the middle of a bank vault. Reality returned with a jolt. Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped back, flushed and breathless. She was supposed to be a professional, she thought. Professionals didn’t behave this way.

  Emmett seemed unaware of her chagrin. He glanced at the jar on the table. “Anything else inside besides the de-rezzed trap?”

  Lydia hurried back to the table. She picked up the jar and angled it once more toward the light. “I don’t see anything. No, wait—there is something. It looks like a piece of paper.”

  “Paper?”

  “Yes.” She lowered the jar and tipped it upside down.

  The
y both stared at the slip of paper that fell into her palm. It was ordinary, everyday paper. It certainly was not thousand-year-old paper. No one had ever found anything that resembled paper in the ruins.

  “Chester,” Lydia whispered. “He could have de-rezzed the trap, stuck the paper inside the jar, and then reset the snare.”

  She put down the jar and carefully unfolded the paper. A familiar scrawl sloped across the page. There were three lines of jumbled letters and numbers. They were followed by a short message:

  Dear Lydia:

  Hell of a retirement plan, isn’t it? Just wish I was there with you to enjoy it. I promised you that one day I’d surprise all those bastards up at the university. The really big news is that I think there’s more where this came from. The bad news is that some other ruin rats are already excavating the site illegally. But it’s going to take them weeks, if not months, to get all the dreamstone out. From what I could tell, every damn corridor in that catacomb branch is crawling with illusion traps and ghosts. I’ve never seen anything in the underground city that was this well guarded. Whatever you do, don’t go in alone. You’ll need a ghost-hunter to help you, and even then it will be dangerous. Whoever you choose, make sure you can trust him or her with your life. There’s enough dreamstone involved to make your best friend contemplate murder.

  The coordinates above are in code. Sorry. Had to do it this way. I can’t be sure that someone else besides you won’t find this jar first or that whoever it is won’t get past the little trap inside. Nasty little bugger, wasn’t it? It’s anchored to the dreamstone. Amazing.

  You’ll need a key to the code. I didn’t want to leave it in here with the coordinates for obvious reasons. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get it.

  Be careful when you go after the rest of the dreamstone. The other ruin rats at the site are real SOBs. I don’t think they’d hesitate to cut your throat if they caught you.

  Love,

  Chester

  “My God!” Lydia whispered. “There’s a whole site full of this stuff.”

  Emmett studied the three lines of letters and numbers Chester had written. “He says he’ll make sure you get the key to those coordinates.”

  Lydia’s jaw dropped for a few seconds as lightning struck. “Emmett, maybe that’s what Chester was doing in the museum the night he was killed. Maybe he came there to leave the key in my office. The killer must have followed him, murdered him, and taken the key.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that. But getting the key didn’t do the bastard any good, because the coordinates were hidden inside the jar.” Emmett glanced at his watch. “Let’s go. We’ve got an appointment with Greeley.”

  18

  THE MORNING FOG off the river had thickened since she and Emmett set out for the bank an hour ago. It was so dense now that Lydia could not see to the end of the block. The shops along Ruin Row were still dark. By mutual agreement and long-standing tradition, they did not open until eleven. Behind the low buildings the massive green walls of the Dead City loomed in the mist.

  She rubbed her arms briskly against the chill as she got out of the Slider. She noticed that Emmett had put on his black leather jacket. She reached back into the vehicle for her coat before she joined him on the sidewalk. Together they walked toward the front door of Greeley’s Antiques.

  Emmett glanced at the amber face of his watch. “Not quite ten.”

  “Ruin Row doesn’t really get humming until noon. But I’m sure Greeley will be in his shop.”

  They walked to the front door. The shop was unlit inside. Lydia tried the door. It was locked.

  “I was certain he’d be here early.” She cupped her hands on the glass and peered into the dingy interior. “I’ll bet he’s in his back room. Try knocking.”

  Emmett made an easy fist and rapped loudly. Lydia watched closely, but no one emerged from the gloom behind the front counter. She stepped back from the window.

  “He’s getting a little hard of hearing,” she said. “Let’s try the rear door.”

  She led the way to the corner and turned down the narrow service alley that ran behind the shops. Here the fog seemed even heavier, and the close confines heightened the gloom. The fleeting traces of stray energy leaking from the Old Wall made her feel edgy. Emmett followed close behind.

  A frisson of awareness wafted through her. Para-rez energy. Her own amber was still at skin temperature.

  “Emmett? Is that you?”

  “Sorry,” he said absently. “Just checking.”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “Checking for what?”

  “Dissonance energy. Thought I caught a trace.”

  “Hold it right there.” She stopped, spun around, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Are you telling me that there’s a ghost-hunter working somewhere near here?”

  “Not at the moment. If there was one here, he’s either gone or he’s stopped working.”

  She contemplated the fog-filled alley uneasily. “A lot of kids hang out in this part of town. They like to play with the energy that leaks through the Dead City walls. Young dissonance para-rezes like Zane come here to practice summoning flickers.”

  Emmett nodded. “It’s the same way near the walls of Old Resonance. Maybe I picked up the traces of some would-be junior hunter.”

  He did not sound convinced, Lydia thought. But who was she to argue?

  She turned around, pulled up the collar of her coat, and started walking again. When she reached the rear entrance of Greeley’s Antiques, she came to a halt and knocked forcefully on the door.

  No answer.

  “Damn,” she said. “He said he’d be here around ten. Looks like we’ll have to wait in the car. I don’t think he’ll be very late. Greeley’s got a short list of priorities. Money is right at the top.”

  Emmett studied the closed door for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then he pulled a pair of gloves out of the pockets of his jacket.

  Lydia suddenly felt very cold. She cleared her throat. Speaking as your consultant, I really can’t recommend breaking into Greeley’s Antiques. No point in it. Bartholomew wouldn’t have left anything as valuable as your cabinet in his back room overnight. Trust me on this, Emmett.”

  “I believe you.” He reached for the doorknob with his gloved hand. “About the cabinet. But I’m still getting traces of rez energy. Don’t you feel it?”

  She frowned. “No. I felt your energy when you used it

  a minute ago, but I’m not picking up anything now.”

  “Probably because you’re a tangler. These are hunter vibes.”

  She hunched deeper into her coat. Most people could pick up faint traces of psi energy when someone in the vicinity was actively working with amber. But the aver age individual was far more sensitive to others who had similar paranormal talents. Ghost-hunters could more easily detect the energy trail left by another hunter. Ephemeral-energy para-rezes such as herself were more likely to be aware of another tangler working nearby.

  But even the most powerful para-energy trace dissipated quickly after the user had stopped resonating through amber. If Emmett was picking up a hint of dissonance energy, it meant that the hunter had worked somewhere close by and sometime in the past few minutes.

  Lydia watched Emmett twist the doorknob. It turned easily in his fingers. Too easily.

  “I don’t think the fact that the back door is unlocked is a good sign, Emmett.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was coming to the same conclusion.” He pushed the door open wide and gazed into the back room of Greeley’s Antiques.

  Lydia stood on tiptoe so that she could see over his shoulder. At first she could make out nothing except the shadowy shapes of cartons and some green quartz vases.

  Then she saw the body sprawled on the floor.

  “Oh, my God, Emmett!”

  Bartholomew Greeley lay facedown in a pool of rapidly drying blood. His throat had been slit.

  “Oh, God!” Lydia exclaimed agai
n. It was hard to catch her breath. Her fingers shook so hard she had to cram them back into her pockets. “Just like Chester.”

  “There is a pattern here, isn’t there?” Emmett contemplated the scene. His intent, focused awareness was clear.

  “What is it?” Lydia demanded. “What are you picking up?”

  “A hunter worked amber in this room. Not long ago. Probably summoned a ghost to stun Greeley before he cut his throat. Whoever he was, he must have been in a hurry.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He singed something. Can’t you smell it?”

  Lydia inhaled cautiously, caught a whiff of charred packing-crate filler. “Yes.”

  Emmett glanced at her. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” That was a flat-out lie, she thought. Her stomach was roiling. The sheer cold-blooded brutality of the scene was making her nauseous.

  “Don’t get sick here,” Emmett warned.

  “I’m not going to throw up.”

  He gave her a doubtful look. Then he stepped into the death room, blocking her view.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” She glanced urgently back down the alley. “This is a crime scene.”

  “I know. I just want to take a quick look around before we leave.”

  An ominous feeling settled on her. “Leave?”

  “Yeah.” He edged cautiously through the gloom, avoiding the blood.

  “What about the police? You’re the one who insisted we call them when we found Chester, remember?”

  “There wasn’t any choice then. This time around, though, we’ve got an option. We’ll call from a pay phone after we’re out of the area.”

  She realized where he was going with this. The unpleasant sensation in her stomach worsened.

  “Anonymously, I take it?” she said dryly.

  Emmett leaned down to examine the floor near the body. She thought she saw him pick something up, but she could not see what it was.

  “Under the circumstances,” he said, getting to his feet. “I think anonymity is our best bet. Detective Martinez hasn’t had any breaks in the Brady case. I got the feeling that she’s hungry for one. If she finds out that you’ve turned up yet again as the first person on the scene of a second murder—” He let the sentence trail off meaningfully.