“Not necessarily.” He set his pack on the floor and shrugged out of his jacket. “If I had to furnish a place, budget or no budget, I’d end up with a mishmash of stuff.”
“Did someone else decorate your apartment or condo?”
“It’s a house. A big one. My grandfather built it decades ago. Before he got recruited into the Bluestone Project, Griffin Chastain was a professional magician in Vegas. I sort of inherited his mansion because no one else wanted it and no real estate agent could sell it. My mother calls the decor mid-century-Vegas-over-the-top.”
“What’s the house like?”
“Hard to describe. Half of it is hidden behind secret doors and walls. Griffin called the place the Abyss. It was named after his most impressive stage trick. But he had a serious hobby on the side. He was obsessed with trying to harness paranormal energy. The Abyss is part laboratory, part workshop and part ongoing crystal light experiment.”
“I assume it was his engineering hobby that brought him to the attention of the Bluestone recruiters?”
“Right. They needed people who had an intuitive grasp of paranormal light energy and the ability to work with it.”
“Why didn’t the Abyss ever sell?” Sierra asked. “Sounds like a property that would have a lot of appeal in a place like Las Vegas.”
“The problem is that my father and I are the only ones who can operate any part of the Abyss. All the technology was tuned to Griffin’s psychic signature.”
“Which you and your dad inherited.”
“Dad can manipulate the crystal tech inside the house but he’s not particularly interested in it. As far as he’s concerned it’s all linked to the past and the rumors that Griffin sold secrets to the enemy. Dad would prefer to bury the family history.”
“Understandable,” Sierra said. “But now your family history is resonating down into the present.”
“Looks like it.”
“We can worry about that later.” Sierra sat down on a small bench, took off her boots and put on a pair of house slippers. She glanced at a nearby mirror. “Time for you to get some real sleep. I’m not kidding, North. You are on the verge of crashing.”
He realized she had just viewed his aura in the mirror. A strange tension gripped him.
“What did you see just now?” he asked.
She did not pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about.
“You’re strong but unstable, possibly from severe sleep deprivation.”
He looked at himself in the mirror. “Are you sure the instability is from lack of sleep?”
“Some of it is.”
She did not elaborate. That told him all he needed to know. She could see the bad vibe in his aura.
He realized he was probably expected to remove his shoes. He sat down and took off the low desert boots. He didn’t travel with house slippers. That meant he was left in his socks.
“Do you mind if I have something to eat before you run your sleep experiment on me?” he said. “I’m really hungry.”
“I’m not surprised, considering how much energy you’ve been burning lately.” She gestured toward the dining counter that framed half of the small kitchen. “Have a seat.”
He sat down on a stool. To his surprise the first thing she did was take a bottle of red wine out of the refrigerator. She poured a glass and set it in front of him.
“Sorry, it’s cold,” she said. “We don’t have time to let it get properly warmed up, but it will do the job.”
“I’m not feeling particular at the moment.” He drank some of the wine. He was no expert but it tasted good.
In a series of smooth, almost choreographed moves Sierra opened the refrigerator and took out some butter and a covered bowl that appeared to be filled with soup or stew. She set the bowl in the microwave and hit the start button. In the next fluid motion she pulled a bread knife from a drawer and put a baguette on a cutting board.
It dawned on him that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Well, no, not exactly. He could take his eyes off her; he just didn’t want to look away. He liked watching her move around the kitchen. She just sort of flowed, every motion deceptively smooth and controlled.
“Were you by any chance a professional dancer?” he asked.
She paused in the act of opening a cupboard door and gave him a surprised look. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Just something about the way you move,” he said. He drank some more of the wine. “Martial arts?”
“Tai chi. My parents use it as a form of moving meditation. I’ve been practicing it since I was a kid.”
He understood. “To help control your talent.”
She buttered the bread. “You?”
“A form of karate. Same reason.”
“Control.”
“Uh-huh.”
She studied him for a long moment. A whisper of energy—her energy—feathered his senses. It was the equivalent of feeling her fingertips on the back of his neck. It sent an exciting little thrill through him but it also made him realize how exhausted he was. Even if she was interested in having sex with him, he doubted that he could last more than five minutes in bed.
The last thing he should be thinking about at the moment was sex. Luckily Sierra appeared oblivious.
“Do you really believe that if you don’t wear those glasses you might go insane?” she asked.
She sounded doubtful.
“My talent is apparently decaying rapidly. When I take off my glasses for even a minute or two I start hallucinating. What the Halcyon doctors told me is that every time I remove the damned glasses I run the risk of getting trapped in a dreamworld filled with hallucinations.”
“Will you have to wear those glasses for the rest of your life?”
“The doctors aren’t sure but they think that once my night vision talent has deteriorated to nothing I may be able to get by without the glasses.” He paused. “They also told me it probably won’t be too much longer before I get to test that theory.”
“Because your talent is disappearing so quickly?”
“Right. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. I shouldn’t have to worry about the ghosts.”
“What ghosts?” Sierra asked.
“When I do take off my glasses these days I see fog and vague images that look like they walked out of a dreamscape. I think of them as dream ghosts.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
She glanced at a nearby mirror again. “Your aura still looks strong. Powerful.”
“I’m not dying,” he said, irritated. “I’m losing my vision talent.”
“Why are you afraid to sleep?”
“Two reasons,” he said. “Every time I try to sleep I walk right into the same dreamscape. I see an abyss—a real one, not Griffin’s mansion. I’m afraid that if I fall into it I won’t be able to wake up from the dream.”
“And the second reason?”
He reached up to touch the mirrored glasses. “I’m afraid these will somehow fall off. If they do, I’ll probably wake up totally psi-blind. Maybe worse.”
She nodded. “You’re afraid you’ll wake up trapped in a nightmare of hallucinations.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Tell you what,” Sierra said. “I’ll check on you every half hour tonight. If your aura shows any indications that you are in a nightmare I’ll wake you up immediately. Same goes for your glasses. If they come off for some reason I’ll put them back on.”
“If you do that you won’t get much sleep yourself.”
“I’ll get by on naps, same as you’ve been doing. I can handle one night of bad sleep.”
He realized he wanted desperately to believe her. He did need some decent sleep.
The microwave beeped. Sierra opened the door and took out the bowl. The fragrance acted lik
e a tonic on his senses.
“What is it?” he asked
“Artichoke and mushroom soup. I made it yesterday. You’re eating leftovers, I’m afraid.”
She pulled out a small grater, took some Parmesan out of the refrigerator and proceeded to grate a thick pile of the cheese on top of the soup. She set the bowl in front of him and handed him a plate with the buttered bread on it.
He looked at the meal. “I don’t think I’ve ever had artichoke soup.”
“First time for everything. Eat.”
After the first bite, he concluded the soup, the bread and the glass of wine constituted the best meal he had eaten in a very long time. When it was finished he helped her clean up the kitchen. He knew he was getting in her way more than actually assisting, but it was the principle of the thing. His mother would have been horrified if he hadn’t at least tried to help.
A short time later she hung the dish towel on a rack and looked at him.
“Ready to get some real sleep?” she asked.
He propped one shoulder against the refrigerator door and crossed his arms. “You’re sure you can guarantee that I won’t wake up in a nightmare?”
“There are no guarantees in life. But hey, you’re a badass cleaner from Las Vegas. You thrive on risk.”
“Not so much these days.”
“Take a chance on me, partner.”
He shook his head. “Sierra, I don’t think this is a good idea. A nap, maybe.”
“Listen up, Chastain. It’s not like we have a choice.”
She was right. He could sense the shadows tugging at him. Dealing with the light grenade had pushed him too close to the edge. His intuition told him that it would be better to go down while he still had some control.
“All right,” he said. He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the refrigerator. “I’ll try sleeping on the sofa.”
“No, it’s too small. Take my bed.”
“I can’t—”
“My bed, North. Please. We do not have time to argue about this.”
She turned and led the way out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. She did not turn on the light.
He followed because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Now that he had made the decision, he could no longer muster the energy required to push back the need to sleep.
He stopped in the doorway. In the shadows he could see that the down comforter, the quilt and the pillowcases were white. The walls were white. The lampshade was white. The wood-grain flooring was bare. The pristine room looked like a cross between the cell of a cloistered nun and a meditation chamber. He felt too big and way too grimy to sleep in such a room.
“I need a shower,” he said.
“Later.”
“I’ll get your quilt dirty.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Fine.” She opened a closet and took out a folded white sheet. She flipped it open and spread it across the bed so that it covered the quilt and the pillows. “There. I can wash the sheet later.”
He gave up and sat down on the edge of the bed. So tired. He tried again to fend off the long shadows of the abyss, but somewhere along the line he had lost the will to fight.
Because you trust her? Yes.
“Look at me, North,” Sierra said.
He glanced up and saw that she had opened the locket she wore around her neck. The mirrored crystal inside glinted in the low light. Energy whispered in the atmosphere. The crystal brightened with an eerie paranormal radiance. He did not want to look away.
He sank back onto the pillows.
“You’re going to sleep now,” she said.
The darkness took him before he could decide if he should be worried.
CHAPTER 15
The word on the street was that the rogue doctor in charge of the experimental lab at Riverview was in town and he was looking for her.
Marge was frightened, so terrified that she had not dared to spend the night in one of the shelters. Instead she had hidden in the stairwell of a parking garage. It had been cold but at least she had been out of the rain.
She hadn’t slept. She had stayed awake not just to keep watch for Delbridge Loring but to protect herself from the assholes who prowled the streets at night looking to rob and assault people like her. She had remained awake and alert for another reason, too. She needed to think; she needed a plan. Somewhere during the night she had made her decision.
At five o’clock last night she had huddled in a doorway and watched the line form outside the All Are Welcome shelter. The folks who worked there were very nice but they didn’t know about Riverview. Dr. Loring was real slick. If he came around asking about her they would probably tell him she was a regular. They’d think they were doing her a favor.
During the afternoon she had picked up the rumor that someone was searching for her. A man who claimed to be a doctor was going around to the places that provided services to street people. He told the staff he was looking for his long-lost aunt; said he had heard she was living on the streets of Seattle. He claimed he wanted to find her and take her home where she could be properly cared for. He said she was delusional because she believed she could see human auras.
Most of it was a lie, of course. She had no family. But one bit was true—she could see the energy that radiated around people.
That evening she had wanted to join the line of people waiting for the doors to open. She was hungry and it was tuna fish casserole day. The All Are Welcome staff did the best tuna fish casserole in the city.
She had almost convinced herself she could take the risk of entering the shelter when the fancy silver-gray car pulled up to the curb and stopped.
Loring had climbed out from behind the wheel. He was wearing a jacket, dark glasses and a baseball cap, not his white lab coat, but she would have recognized him and his powerful aura anywhere.
Terrified that he might notice her in the doorway, she had pressed herself against the wall and looked down at her feet so that he would not catch her eye. Even regular people who lacked the second sight could sense when they were being watched. Loring was not a regular person. He was one of the monsters.
When he had disappeared inside the shelter she had known she was in serious danger. Someone would tell him that a street lady named Marge who matched her description always showed up on tuna fish casserole day.
She had grabbed the handle of the wheeled suitcase that held all her worldly possessions and lurched out of the doorway. She had managed to slip into the garage behind a car that had disobeyed the big sign instructing drivers to wait until the security gate had closed. Once inside it had been a simple matter to hide in the stairwell.
A couple of weeks back a man from the Foundation, Slater Arganbright, had given her a card. He’d told her that if she ever felt threatened by someone from Riverview she was supposed to call the number on the card.
She had escaped from Riverview a couple of months ago and she had been doing okay on the streets of Seattle ever since. Her ability to see auras made it possible for her to avoid the real crazies and the monsters. But she lived in fear that Delbridge Loring and the clones who worked for him would track her down, kidnap her and take her back to the locked ward at Riverview. If that happened they would shoot her full of drugs again. She didn’t think she could survive any more of their damned experiments.
At dawn, one thing had become crystal clear. It was time to call Las Vegas.
She waited until one of the day shelters opened at six thirty. It was a nice place that offered coffee and doughnuts. It also provided a telephone.
She called the number on the card. A man with a deep, reassuring voice answered on the first ring.
“This is Lucas Pine,” he said.
Marge gripped the phone very tightly. “My n
ame is Marge. From Seattle. A man named Arganbright gave me this number a while back. He said I was supposed to call you if the damned doctor or his clones from Riverview came looking for me. Well, the monster is here so I’m calling.”
“Hang on, Marge. I think you should talk to Victor Arganbright.”
A couple of beats later another man came on the line. He didn’t sound as warm and polite as the one called Pine. Victor Arganbright was gruff but not mean. His voice was that of a man with a lot on his mind.
“This is Arganbright.”
“My name is Marge—”
“I know who you are, Marge. My nephew Slater told me about you. You gave him and Catalina Lark a lot of help a couple of weeks ago. The Foundation is very grateful to you. First things first. Are you in immediate danger?”
“I’m okay for now. I’m in a shelter but I can’t stay here long. Someone from Riverview is looking for me. His name is Delbridge Loring.” Marge lowered her voice. “He’s one of the monsters.”
“Tell me about him,” Victor said.
“He runs the experiments at Riverview. He sends the clones to find people like me, people living on the street. Folks who can see things, understand?”
“People who can see auras, yes, I understand. He targets those who won’t be noticed if they just disappear.”
“Exactly.” A wave of relief swept over Marge. Victor Arganbright got it. “Always figured Loring might try to find me. He knows I could spill the beans about what he’s up to there at Riverview. But here’s the strange part—he didn’t send the clones after me. He’s here in town himself. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that you may know more than you realize,” Victor said. “The first step is to make sure you’re safe. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to send some people I trust to pick you up and take you to Fogg Lake. At the moment it’s the most secure place I can think of. Do you know it?”
“Sure. I know some real nice folks who grew up there.”
“Catalina Lark and Olivia LeClair?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a team of cleaners protecting Fogg Lake while the Foundation experts chart what’s left of the old government lab there. No one gets into town unless they have been cleared by the Foundation or one of the locals. In Fogg Lake everybody knows everybody else. Strangers stand out.”