Amaryllis

by Jayne Castle

  “Unless what?”

  Amaryllis sighed. “Unless she was a willing subject. In which case she’s simply a dishonest, mercenary, untrustworthy employee. Not a victim of a criminally inclined hypno-talent.”

  “I thought she was more than just another employee,” Lucas said quietly.

  “The two of you have a personal relationship?”

  “Not in the way you probably mean. But, yes, we have a relationship. Three years ago Miranda was engaged to marry my partner, Jackson Rye. I gave her the VP job in public relations after Rye was killed in the Western Islands Action. I knew she needed the work. And I felt the company owed her something.”

  Amaryllis was silent for a long time. “Very well, Mr. Trent. I’ll sign a contract with you.” She picked up her pen and started to write her name at the bottom of an official looking form.

  “Thanks.”

  “By the way, have you thought of a cover story to explain my presence at the reception? I’ll need to be quite close to you at all times, you know. Perhaps I could masquerade as a member of the catering staff. Of course, that would mean you’d have to clear it with the company that is handling the food service for the museum.”

  “Your cover won’t be a problem.” Lucas studied the tiny, round earrings she wore. “I’m going to take you along as my marriage agency date for the evening.”

  Amaryllis’s pen jolted to an abrupt halt midway through her signature.

  “I beg your pardon?” She stared at him with widening eyes.

  “It’s no secret that I’m in the process of registering with a matchmaking agency. Everyone, including Miranda, knows I’m in the market for a wife. I’ll just tell anyone who asks that you’re a candidate for the job.”

  Chapter

  2

  Lucas Trent, the Iceman himself. He had been right here in her office.

  Amaryllis managed to wait until the door had closed firmly behind her new client before she succumbed to the amazed wonder that she had barely been able to conceal during their conversation.

  Lucas Trent. He had been sitting there on the other side of her desk. She had signed a contract to focus for him.

  Amaryllis sagged weakly in her chair. She still could not believe it.

  The man they called the Iceman had been haunting her for months. It had been a gentle haunting, to be sure, nevertheless she had been intimately aware of his existence in a way she could not explain.

  A year ago a single news photo of him had transfixed her attention. She had picked up the paper one morning and found herself riveted. It wasn’t his business success, or the tales of his exploits during the Western Islands Action that had captured her interest. It was not even the discovery of the artifacts that had intrigued her so much.

  She thought it was something about his eyes.

  It was not as if she had been obsessive about it, she assured herself. In the months since he had appeared on television and in the papers, her awareness of him had quietly receded to the back of her mind. She’d had more important things to do than dwell on Lucas Trent and she had done them.

  She led a busy life, and the past few months had been especially full. What with ending her relationship with Gifford, quitting her job at the university, joining Psynergy, Inc., and preparing to register with a marriage agency, she’d had very little time to think about the Iceman.

  His name had actually been familiar long before his discovery of the relics. Everyone had become aware of Lucas Trent three years ago when pirates had attempted a takeover of the Western Islands.

  The pirates, a motley coalition of outlaws, career criminals, and assorted riffraff from the three city-states had united under a leader to try to take control of the rich resources of the Western Islands.

  Amaryllis had been busy with her research and teaching at the university during the Western Islands Action, but she had heard some of the details. She knew, for instance, that Lucas’s wife and his partner had been killed during the initial pirate raid.

  In the chaotic days that followed the raid, Lucas had put together a hastily deputized police force from among the miners, technicians, traders, cooks, sailors, and shopkeepers who had found themselves stranded in the islands when the fighting broke out.

  It was during the Western Islands Action that Nelson Burlton had dubbed Lucas the Iceman. Burlton and the other correspondents who had covered the story had marveled at the effectiveness of Lucas’s strategy and tactics. The pirates had been driven from the islands in complete disarray in less than two weeks.

  But it wasn’t Lucas’s success as a commander three years ago that had caught Amaryllis’s attention. In truth, she had been too occupied with final exams to notice him. It was his discovery of the relics that had made her so intensely aware of him.

  She would never forget the photo of him that had been snapped soon after he had emerged from the jungle with the artifacts in his hands. The harsh landscape of his face had been indelibly imprinted on her mind.

  Today she had been shaken to realize that, if anything, the news photos and film clips had understated the reality of Lucas’s features. His face was not exactly a thing of beauty. It was a graphic rendering of masculine strength and determination. His bold cheekbones, aggressive nose, and strong jaw were as exotic, compelling, and mysterious to Amaryllis as the alien artifacts themselves.

  She knew now that the news photos had failed utterly to capture the bleak, icy gray of his eyes. Nothing could have prepared her for her first in-person glimpse into those veiled depths. The chill of a fierce self-control swirled there. Amaryllis decided that Lucas’s nickname suited him far better than Nelson Burlton could possibly have guessed.

  The bad news, so far as she was concerned, was that whatever it was about Lucas that had tugged at her senses through the medium of film and photograph was a thousand times stronger in real life. His laconic, Western Islands drawl ruffled the tiny, sensitive hairs on the nape of her neck. The sight of his big, competent, jungle-roughened hands had done strange things to the pit of her stomach.

  She was no closer to a logical explanation for her reaction to him now than she had been a year ago.

  She was relieved when the door to her office slammed open.

  “Well?” Clementine Malone, owner and sole proprietor of Psynergy, Inc., strode into the room. Her shrewd, dark eyes gleamed as brightly as the metal studs on her black leather jacket and pants. Her short, stark white hair, cut to resemble a stiff brush, seemed to actually bristle with anticipation. “Did you get Trent’s signature on a contract?”

  “Right here.” Amaryllis waved the signed forms. “I’ll be working with him on Thursday night. But I think I’d better explain something, Clementine. There are some problems with this job.”

  “We can handle ’em.” Clementine plucked the contract from Amaryllis’s fingers and scanned the signatures. “Nice going. Very nice, indeed.”

  “Thanks.” Amaryllis watched her boss flip through the short contract. The knowledge that Clementine was pleased should have given her a good deal of satisfaction. Lucas Trent was, after all, the most important client Amaryllis had signed up since she had come to work for Psynergy, Inc. six months ago. She knew it was not only an important step in her new career as a professional prism, it was also a coup for the firm.

  Clementine glanced up from the contract. “I knew you could do it. I was just saying to Smyth-Jones that this contract will put Psynergy, Inc. into the big leagues. Proud Focus can eat our exhaust.”

  Proud Focus was Psynergy, Inc.’s chief competitor. There were a number of firms that offered psychic focus services in New Seattle, but the rivalry between Proud Focus and Psynergy, Inc. had a personal twist. Proud Focus was owned and operated by Clementine’s personal permanent partner, Gracie Proud. Amaryllis knew that although the two women had been living together in a blissfully happy union for some fifteen years’ duration, they were enthusiastic rivals when it came to business.

  “Sorry, Clementine.” Amaryllis rea
ched across the desk to take back the contract. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to brag about this deal too loudly. Mr. Trent wants it kept quiet. Security work, you know.”

  “Sure, sure.” Clementine winked as she propped one leather-sheathed hip on the edge of the desk. The steel hoop rings in her ears swung gently. “But word has a way of getting around in Trent’s circles. If he’s pleased with our services, he’ll recommend us to others. And the next thing you know, we’ll be the most exclusive agency in town.”

  “We already are the most exclusive agency in town,” Byron Smyth-Jones, Psynergy’s Inc.’s combination receptionist and secretary, said from the doorway. “How many times do I have to tell you that, Clementine? You have to think big in order to be big. Attitude is everything. Vision precedes reality.”

  Clementine eyed Byron with mild disgust. “What in the name of the five hells ever possessed me to send you to that positive synergy management seminar last week?”

  “You sent me because you know I’m destined for the top.” Byron gave her a complacent grin.

  He was in his early twenties, lean, good-looking in a youthful way, and painfully trendy, in Amaryllis’s opinion. His long, blond hair was pulled back and tied with a black leather cord. He wore khaki trousers and a matching shirt. Both garments were festooned with countless epaulets, buckles, snaps, and pockets. An artificially weathered leather belt and deliberately scuffed boots completed his ensemble. He could have served as a model for an ad featuring the Western Islands look.

  The style had exploded onto the fashion scene a year earlier when popular news anchor Nelson Burlton had gone on location to the Western Islands to cover the discovery of the artifacts. For nearly a week, Burlton, looking attractively rugged in Western Islands gear, had appeared nightly on the evening news. He had not only focused public interest on the alien relics, he had done wonders for the khaki manufacturers.

  The young males of the three city-states had gone wild for what had come to be known as the Western Islands look. To date, the fad showed no signs of waning. A new wave of public excitement generated by the impending opening of the relics gallery at the museum had only served to fuel the rage for the style.

  “Destiny is a function of synergy and can be easily altered,” Clementine intoned.

  Byron made a face. Then he grinned at Amaryllis. “Don’t you just hate it when she starts quoting some old dippy philosopher?”

  “She’s quoting Patricia Thorncroft North,” Amaryllis said, automatically slipping into her academic persona. “North was not some old dippy philosopher. She was one of the discoverers of the Three Principles of Synergy. If it had not been for North and her work, you might not have your present cushy job with Psynergy, Inc.”

  Clementine gave a snort of muffled laughter.

  Byron groaned and put a hand to his forehead as though he had suddenly taken ill. “Please, not another lecture, Amaryllis, I beg you. I’m still recovering from the one you gave me yesterday.”

  “But she’s so good at them,” Clementine murmured.

  Amaryllis flushed. She was still not accustomed to the phenomenon of office humor. There were too many occasions when she could not tell the difference between good-natured teasing and more serious remarks. Things had been different at the university, she reflected. Sometimes she missed the sober, serious-minded atmosphere of the Department of Focus Studies. But only sometimes.

  “The point here,” Byron continued in the painstakingly exaggerated tone one used to explain basic synergy to a child, “is that you have landed one very big fish for good old Psynergy, Inc., Amaryllis. I’d ask for a raise right now if I were you. Timing is everything in business, you know.”

  Amaryllis smiled wryly. “I appreciate the advice, Byron. But I think I’d better hold off asking for a raise. I have a feeling Mr. Trent is not going to be a happy, satisfied client when this job is finished.”

  Clementine’s eyes widened in alarm. “What the hell are you talking about? Why shouldn’t he be a satisfied customer? I know he’s a nine, but you can handle him. Hell, you’re a full-spectrum prism. You’re certified for tens.”

  “It’s not that.” Amaryllis studied the contract unhappily. “There won’t be any problem focusing his talent. But he’s looking for answers, and I don’t think he’s going to get the ones he wants.”

  “So?” Byron frowned. “He has to pay the same fee, whether he gets his answers or not.”

  “Yes, but he probably won’t go away happy,” Amaryllis said. “You know how it is with high-class talents. They tend to be arrogant and difficult. When they don’t get the results they want, they usually blame the prism who worked with them. They claim the focus was of poor quality or not strong enough to handle their psychic energy.”

  Clementine’s gaze sharpened. “You said it was a security job. What’s Trent looking for?”

  Amaryllis sighed. “Brace yourself, because you’re not going to believe this. He thinks a strong hypno-talent has used psychic suggestion to force one of his executives to steal proprietary information from Lodestar Exploration.”

  “A hypno-talent?” Byron’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Clementine scowled. “That kind of thing never happens except in films or an Orchid Adams novel.”

  “Psychic vampire,” Byron whispered in a voice laced with theatrical dread. “Able to seduce innocent lady prisms and turn them into love slaves.”

  Clementine grimaced. “Sounds like Trent may have spent a little too much time out in the jungle.”

  Amaryllis regarded the contract with morose foreboding. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

  “What?” Clementine nearly fell off her perch on the corner of the desk. “You tried to talk him out of the contract? Are you crazy? He’s the most important client we’ve ever had.”

  “I’m afraid he’s going to be the most dissatisfied client we’ve ever had,” Amaryllis said. “That’s not going to be good for business, Clementine.”

  “Damn.” Clementine pursed her lips, obviously weighing the pros and cons of the situation.

  An air of gloom settled on the small office.

  “Hey, look on the bright side,” Byron said after a moment. “They call Trent the Iceman. He’s a living legend. He didn’t become one by being stupid. He must know the hypnosis thing is very improbable. Maybe he just wants to check out all possibilities before he makes his move. A superstrong hypno-talent who could force someone to act against his or her will is at least a theoretical possibility, isn’t it?”

  Clementine grimaced. “Sure. And it’s theoretically possible that the Return cult kooks are right when they say that the curtain will reopen one of these days and we’ll all go back to Earth.”

  “Get serious, Clementine, Trent’s not crazy the way the cultists are.” Byron turned back to Amaryllis. “I know he’s a class nine. He told me that much when he made the appointment. But what kind of talent is he?”

  “He’s a detector,” Amaryllis said. “He can sense when other talents are working.”

  “Is that all?” Byron was clearly disappointed.

  “According to his certification papers.” Amaryllis straightened the forms on her desk. “A class-nine detector.”

  “Class nine.” Clementine whistled in awe. “What a waste. All that psychic power and no useful talent to go with it. Sort of like putting a hot engine in a big, souped-up ice-cycle and then putting it up on blocks.”

  “Bad synergy, all right.” Byron shook his head. “Just imagine what it would be like to know that you had a high-grade talent, but the only thing you could do with it was detect other people when they used their talents.”

  “Must be frustrating for him,” Clementine agreed. “No wonder the news reports have never said much about his psychic abilities. He probably doesn’t like to talk about them.”

  “You know,” Byron pursed his lips. “I thought for sure he’d have some really interesting talent.”

  Amarylli
s glanced at him. “Such as?”

  “Well, they call him the Iceman because he’s so good at finding jelly-ice, right? I thought maybe he’d at least have a talent for locating valuable ore and mineral deposits or something.”

  “Apparently he did his prospecting the old-fashioned way,” Amaryllis said. “Detailed research and a lot of grueling fieldwork. He has a degree in Synergistic Crystal Mineralogy.”

  Amaryllis did not know much about the complex process involved in the search for jelly-ice, but she knew it was difficult, sometimes dangerous work. It was also vital, high-paying work.

  Jelly-ice was slang for the substance known in technical circles as semiliquid full-spectrum crystal quartz. Jelly-ice had a multitude of strange properties including a weird, jellylike consistency when it was in its natural state. But the most important fact about the stuff was that it could be made to produce energy. Clean, efficient, inexpensive energy.

  Lucas Trent had made his fortune by locating several extremely rich deposits of jelly-ice in the Western Islands. The company he had founded, Lodestar Exploration, was one of the most successful in the business.

  “I don’t give a damn how he goes about finding jelly-ice,” Clementine said. “All I care about is that it’s made him a very important person here in the city.” She leveled a finger laden with several steel rings at Amaryllis. “I’m counting on you to convince him that even if there’s no psychic vampire hypno-talent involved in this case, he got exactly what he paid for from Psynergy, Inc.”

  “Right, boss.”

  Clementine stood and planted her hands on her hips. “Trent is contracting for a professional, highly skilled prism, and that’s just what we’ll give him. Whatever answers he gets when he links with you are his problem.”

  “I trust you’ll remember that when it’s time to hand out the yearly bonuses,” Amaryllis said politely.