Canyons of Night

by Jayne Castle

  DEVIN STOPPED IN FRONT OF THE ENTRANCE TO LOOKing Glass Antiques and peered through the window. He could see Charlotte Enright moving about inside the shop. She was dressed in black jeans and a black, short-sleeved T-shirt. She had a little blue triangle-shaped scarf tied around her hair. She was unpacking a crate.

  She was busy. He could come back later.

  He started to move on but for some reason he could not. Sure, he had to apologize, but Nate was waiting down at the marina. They had plans to make for the hike out to Hidden Beach. He could always apologize later. Like maybe right around five thirty when Charlotte was closing up for the day. She would be in a hurry to go home and he would be able to get the whole thing over with fast.

  Or he could get it done now. He thought about how the chief would handle things and groaned. The chief would take care of it now.

  Reluctantly he opened the door of the shop and moved inside. The old-fashioned bell chimed overhead. The subtle vibes hit him. It was as if he’d run through an invisible waterfall. The interior of the antiques shop did not exactly get brighter but it seemed to him that it was lit by something more than just normal light and shadow. He could see strange colors but he had no names for them.

  He stopped, distracted by the intriguing sensations. It was so ice-rez, this feeling. Scary, sometimes, but incredibly ice-rez. Reluctantly he withdrew into himself. The unnatural colors and lighting in the atmosphere faded back to normal. He was still vaguely aware of some of the sparkling waterfall-like sensations but they no longer distracted him. He could control this feeling, he realized. That was also very cool.

  “Hi, Devin.” Charlotte straightened up from the crate she had been unpacking, brushed off her hands, and walked toward him. “I’m glad you stopped by today.”

  She knew, he thought. He felt as if he’d been shoved off-balance. Belatedly he remembered to remove his sunglasses. He reached up and took off the shades with the smooth, deliberate motion that the chief always used. The action bought him a little time to recover.

  “Why?” he asked warily.

  He should have known that Charlotte had guessed the truth about last night. She was a little weird. The chief was weird, too, but in a different way, and that was okay. The chief was a man and understood stuff. Charlotte, on the other hand, was a woman. He liked her but she made him uneasy. It was as if she could see inside his head or something. That was the main reason he had not ventured into the shop when it was open during the day.

  There was another reason why he hadn’t come into the shop, as well. He couldn’t afford to buy any of the cool antiques. He just wanted to hang around them for a while. Shopkeepers didn’t like people who wandered into a store and hung out. They looked too much like shoplifters.

  Charlotte smiled. “I came across something I think suits you perfectly. I just unpacked it.” She turned and went back across the room.

  He followed cautiously. “My grandma says that your aunt never bothered to unpack most of the stuff that she bought for this shop.”

  “No, Aunt Beatrix did not like dealing with customers. In fact, I think it’s safe to say she never quite got the concept of customer service. Makes for a difficult business model.”

  “I don’t get it. If she didn’t like to sell her stuff, why was she in the business?”

  “Good question. In my family we always said she was eccentric and let it go at that. But between you and me, I think she spent her life searching for something.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you ever ask her?”

  “I did one time, as a matter of fact. She said it was a key. I asked her what it opened. She said it wasn’t created to open a door. It was made to lock something that should never have been opened in the first place.”

  “Do you think she ever found it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Charlotte stopped, hands on her hips and surveyed a pile of junk on the floor. At least, it looked like junk to him, but he knew that to her they were antiques.

  “Let me see,” Charlotte said. “I think I put it next to that old chocolate pot. Yes, there it is.” She stooped down and scooped up a small object.

  For a moment she gripped the object in her hand. At the same time she put the fingertips of her other hand on the mirrored pendant she wore. Light sparked on the pendant. He thought he felt a small flash of fresh energy in the atmosphere but it was hard to be certain.

  Charlotte opened her hand and held out the object. “Here you go. This feels like you.”

  Alarmed, he took a step back. “I never even touched it, I swear it.”

  She smiled. “I know, but it’s yours now, if you want it.”

  “What do you mean, it feels like me?”

  “It just does. Here, take it. See how it feels to you.”

  He looked down at the object in her hand. The antique was a flat amber disc about two inches across and half an inch wide. It was engraved with a compass rose. The four points of the compass were set with small gray crystals. He was instantly fascinated.

  “Wow,” he breathed. He took the amber compass from her and examined it closely. It felt good in his hand, warm and comfortable, as if it had been made for him. A shiver of awareness hummed through him. “Does it still work?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s a genuine Damian Cavalon compass. He was one of the first tunnel explorers. Navigating the catacombs was impossible with standard aboveground compasses. They didn’t function in the alien psi. He came up with the first design that could work in a hot-psi environment. There have been a lot of improvements in the technology over the years but any ghost hunter will tell you that there is nothing as reliable as an old-style Damian Cavalon compass. Most hunters still carry them as backup when they go into the Underworld.”

  “I don’t see a dial or a needle. Maybe it broke off?”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way. You just rez the amber and the crystals light up. True north is always bright blue. Try it.”

  He focused a little energy into the disc, the amount he would have used to turn on a rez-screen or a toaster. Nothing happened. He pushed a little harder. The crystal set at north started to glow faintly. He turned slowly on his heel and watched it brighten. Excitement shot through him.

  “That’s north,” he announced, pointing across the street toward the door of the Kane Gallery.

  “Evidently,” Charlotte said. She smiled.

  “This is great,” he exclaimed. Then reality hit him. He sighed and held out the compass to her. “But antiques are expensive. No way I can afford something like this.”

  “I don’t see why we can’t work out some arrangements. Are you interested in a short-term job?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I could use someone to help me clean up this place. Dusting, sweeping, and washing the windows. The glass in the display cabinets is so grimy the customers can’t even see what’s on the shelves. Would you be interested in doing that kind of work in exchange for the compass?”

  Excitement crackled through him. He closed his fingers tightly around the compass. “That’d be great. No problem. When do you want me to start?”

  Charlotte looked around. “How about next week? I need to finish unpacking these crates and it would be best to complete an inventory before I start organizing and arranging the items on display.”

  “Okay. See you.” He started toward the door and then froze under the crushing weight of sudden dismay. “Wait, I almost forgot. You may not want to give me the compass.”

  “Why not?”

  He turned around and braced himself. “I’m the one who was inside your shop last night.”

  Charlotte folded her arms and looked at him with her knowing eyes. “I see.”

  “I didn’t take anything, honest.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I just wanted to look around.”

  “Next time you want to look around, try coming through the fron
t door.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “No,” she said. “Why did you?”

  “I dunno. I just wanted to. Anyhow, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. Apology accepted. But don’t do it again.”

  “Do you want the compass back?”

  “No.” Charlotte smiled. “We have a deal. See you next week.”

  “Okay.”

  He ran for the door before she could change her mind.

  Chapter 4

  “SO, WHY HAVEN’T YOU EVER MARRIED?” SLADE ASKED.

  Charlotte sipped some of the white wine and considered her answer while she watched Slade arrange the salmon on the outdoor grill. He dealt with the salmon and the fire the same way he seemed to do everything else: competently, coolly, with a minimum amount of fuss. Rex, perched on the porch railing, was watching the activity around the grill with rapt attention.

  “You’re really interested?” Charlotte said finally.

  “Damn curious,” Slade admitted. “Over the years, whenever I thought about you, I told myself you’d be married by now.”

  “Remember me telling you that my talent had a few downsides?”

  He paused, the metal spatula in midair, and looked at her. “Fifteen years ago you said something about having panic attacks when you run hot for any length of time. Didn’t you outgrow those?”

  “Not entirely. I have much better control now. But I still get them if I get super jacked for too long.”

  He shook his head. “Definitely a downside. But what does it have to do with the fact that you’ve never married?”

  “It’s complicated.” She swallowed some more wine. “Let’s just say that, as far as professional matchmakers are concerned, I’m a difficult match.”

  “So you did go to an agency?”

  “Oh, sure, I went with the best, at least the best one for a member of the Arcane Society.”

  “Arcanematch?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it that didn’t go well?” he asked.

  “I was reminded that no match is ever one hundred percent guaranteed perfect and that goes double for strong or extremely unusual talents. Turns out I fit both categories. Evidently that makes for a para-psych profile that has too many unknown or unpredictable elements.”

  He frowned. “You told me that your ability was useless for anything except reading aura rainbows and tuning antiques.”

  “That’s all it is good for. I happen to have a heck of a lot of talent for doing it.” Time to change the subject, Charlotte thought. “What about you? Ever try a match-making agency?”

  “Remember that Marriage of Convenience I mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “We met through a matchmaker. The counselors said we had an eighty-two percent compatibility rating.”

  “Not bad for a strong talent,” she said.

  “But not exactly a slam dunk, either. Susan and I didn’t want to take any chances. We decided to try an MC first.”

  “Good plan, since it turned out you two weren’t a great match. What happened?”

  “Things changed,” he said. “I changed. Let’s just say I no longer fit the profile that I had registered with the agency.”

  “I see.” She didn’t but it was obvious she wasn’t going to get any more information out of him. Fair enough. This was a first date, after all. There were protocols.

  For some reason she’d had a hard time making up her mind about what to wear to dinner that evening. It should have been a simple decision, given the venue—a backyard barbeque. Slade’s weather-beaten cabin stood in a clearing on a tree-studded bluff overlooking a rocky beach and the dark waters of the Amber Sea. In the near distance a scattering of islands, some so small they were no more than oversized rocks, floated in the mist.

  The temperature had been in the mid-eighties all day. It was just now starting to dip down into the seventies. The sun would not set for another three hours. Her wardrobe selection should have been a no-brainer. Jeans, a pullover top, and maybe a sweater to wear when she walked back to her own cottage later in the evening were the obvious choices. But she had dithered, rummaging around in her small closet far too long before choosing jeans, a dark blue pullover, and a sweater to wear on the way home.

  First-date syndrome, she thought. A woman never outgrew it. She wondered if men had the same issues. If Slade had agonized over his own attire this evening, there was no evidence of it. At least he was not wearing his uniform. That boded well, she thought. He was dressed in jeans, a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms, and a pair of low boots. She was pretty sure that he had shaved again, too. There was no sign of a five-o’clock shadow.

  “No such thing as a hundred percent in anything, I guess,” Slade said. Satisfied that the salmon was off to a good start, he put the spatula aside and picked up the bottle of beer on the table. “Are you good on the wine?”

  She glanced at her half-full glass. “Fine, thanks.” She picked up the glass and took a small sip. “Something I’ve always wondered.”

  He looked at her. “Yeah?”

  “How did things work out for you at the FBPI?”

  Slade lowered himself onto one of the picnic table benches. “Good, for the most part. You could say I had a talent for the work.”

  “What, exactly, did you do for the Bureau? I realize you were a special agent, but what kind of bad guys did you go after?”

  He was silent for a time. Then he started to talk. “Here’s how I work, or how I used to work. Set me down in the middle of what appears to be the perfect crime or an old cold case and I can tell you if the perp committed the crime by paranormal means. I could usually find the evidence, too. I was so good at it that I eventually wound up working for a special department within the Bureau. It was known as the Office.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Which is exactly the way the Bureau wants it. The Office exists for the exclusive purpose of profiling and taking down the worst of the worst, rogue psychics who use paranormal talent to commit crimes.”

  “The Ghost Hunters’ Guild is rumored to have an agency that does something along the same lines.”

  “It does but its agents work almost exclusively down in the catacombs and the underground rain forest. The Office handles the aboveground cases. But in the past few years a solid working relationship has developed between the two. Some situations require coordination.”

  “Makes sense. Bad guys who commit crimes on the surface sometimes try to escape into the Underworld.”

  “And vice versa,” Slade said. “It’s not uncommon for a bad actor who violates the law underground to try to hide in a city or town where he knows the Guild can’t easily track him.”

  She raised her brows. “Or apply its own brand of justice if it does find him.”

  Slade smiled his rare, fleeting smile. “I can see you’re not a great admirer of the Guilds.”

  “They do have a certain reputation,” she allowed.

  “Things are changing. You should know that. You’re from Frequency. That Guild had the most notorious reputation of all. It will be different now that Adam Winters is in charge, trust me.”

  “You know Winters?” she asked.

  “We’ve worked together a few times in the past. Good man.”

  “Well, he’s certainly a local hero back in Frequency, I’ll give you that. If you can believe even half of the news reports, he and Marlowe Jones apparently saved the Underworld from certain destruction. Their wedding will be the biggest social event of the season.”

  “One thing’s for sure, by marrying into the Jones family, Adam has forever linked the Guild to Arcane.”

  “For better or worse,” Charlotte said dryly.

  “I can see the Frequency Guild has some public relations work to do, at least in your case.”

  “Yes, it does.” She lounged back in her chair. “If you liked your work with the FBPI and this Office you mentioned, why change your career path?”
>
  He drank some more beer and got to his feet to check the salmon. “It was time for me to move on.”

  Something bad had happened, she thought. But she knew she would not get the truth out of him that evening.

  “You mentioned you had a project going,” she said. “What is it? Or is it a secret?”

  “I’m keeping quiet about it here on the island.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything. I don’t want the word to get out that I’m a short-timer. Bad for morale at the station.”

  “I understand. I won’t tell anyone. What’s the new career plan?”

  “I’m going to set up a private security consulting business. Hire the talents I need. I’ve got some connections from my days with the Bureau. Figure those will help land the first clients.”

  “How is the plan going?”

  “Slowly, but it’s going.” He turned back toward the grill. “The fish will be ready soon.”

  “I’ll get the salad.”

  She went up the steps. Apparently sensing that dinner was fast approaching, Rex chortled excitedly at her as she went past him. She opened the screen door and moved into the small spare front room of the cabin. It was clear immediately that Slade was making no attempt to turn the place into a home. Everything was neat and orderly. That did not come as a surprise. But aside from the computer on the desk, there was almost nothing of Slade in the room. He was treating the place like the short-term rental he obviously intended it to be.

  The cabin was typical of many of the small rentals on the island. The furniture was sturdy but battered. The well-worn couch and the pair of reading chairs set in front of the fireplace looked as if they had been around for several generations. The two framed pictures on the wall were faded generic landscapes of Amber Island scenes that had probably been in the house as long as the furniture. There was a bedroom and bath but the cabin also boasted a sleeping loft in the high-ceilinged front room designed to accommodate additional guests. The loft overlooked the main room and was accessed by a narrow wooden staircase.

  She crossed the old braided rug and went into a vintage kitchen. Opening the elderly refrigerator, she took out the bowl that contained the cucumber, tomato, olive, and basil salad she had brought with her. She poured the dressing that she had made earlier over the salad and tossed everything together. When she was ready she picked up the bowl of salad and the loaf of zucchini bread she had brought and went back outside. The sun was sinking fast. The evening was growing cooler. By the time she left she would need the sweater, she thought.