Harmony: Obsidian Prey Part 33

She laughed, joy effervescing through her. And then he was kissing her again, and the night glowed invisibly around them with the power of their love. She knew that radiant energy would be with them all of their lives.

The charms on her bracelet clashed musically in the night. Green fire burned in the heart of obsidian amber.

ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE BIG HOUSE, VINCENT hopped down from the windowsill where he had been keeping watch. The energy of the night felt right now. Time to party.

He tumbled across the vast library to join the cl.u.s.ter of dust bunnies gathered there. The others had accompanied their persons to the island, just as he had. They all possessed human names-Fuzz, Rose, Max, Araminta, Elvis-but they knew and recognized each other in a different way.

He bounced up onto the big table at the end of the room where someone had very thoughtfully left a large box of rez-brush paints. There was an easel with a half-finished canvas next to the table, but he ignored both.

He used his two front paws to push the box of paint-brushes over the edge. It landed on the floor with a thud. The lid flew off, and the brushes, each with their tubes of paint neatly attached, scattered across the carpet.

He fluttered down to the floor, grabbed a psi green brush, and dashed out into the hall, chortling for the others to follow. Delighted with the prospect of a new game, each dust bunny selected a brush and scampered after him.

Out in the hall, Vincent pulled the cap off the green rez-brush paint tube. After watching him, it took the others only a moment to figure out how to remove the caps from their brushes.

Vincent surveyed the long, empty corridor. There was a vast expanse of white stone on the floors. The walls were covered with panels of pale, bleached wood.

The perfect canvas.

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FIRED UP.

Book One of The Dreamlight Trilogy

by Jayne Ann Krentz

Coming soon from G. P. Putnam's Sons.

The Dreamlight Trilogy Dear Reader: The Arcane Society was founded on secrets. Few of those secrets are more dangerous than those kept by the descendants of the alchemist Nicholas Winters, a fierce rival of Sylvester Jones.

The legend of the Burning Lamp goes back to the earliest days of the Society. Nicholas Winters and Sylvester Jones started out as friends and eventually became deadly adversaries. Each sought the same goal: a way to enhance psychic talents. Sylvester chose the path of chemistry and plunged into illicit experiments with strange herbs and plants. Ultimately he concocted the flawed formula that bedevils the Society to this day.

Nicholas took the engineering approach and forged the Burning Lamp, a device with unknown powers. The radiation from the lamp produced a twist in his DNA, creating a psychic genetic "curse" destined to be pa.s.sed down through the males of his bloodline.

The Winters Curse strikes very rarely, but when it does, the Arcane Society has good reason for grave concern. It is said that the Winters man who inherits Nicholas's genetically altered talent is destined to become a Cerberus-Arcane slang for an insane psychic who possesses multiple lethal abilities. Jones & Jones and the Governing Council are convinced that such human monsters must be hunted down and terminated as swiftly as possible.

There is only one hope for the men of the Burning Lamp. Each must find the artifact and a woman who can work the dreamlight energy that the device produces in order to reverse the changes brought on by the curse.

In the Dreamlight Trilogy you will meet the three men of the Burning Lamp, past, present, and future. These are the pa.s.sionate descendants of Nicholas Winters. Each will discover some of the deadly secrets of the lamp. Each will encounter the woman with the power to shape his destiny.

And ultimately, far in the future, on a world called Harmony, one of them will unravel the lamp's final and most dangerous mystery, the secret of the midnight crystal.

I hope you will enjoy the trilogy.

Sincerely, Jayne

Prologue.

CAPITOL HILL NEIGHBORHOOD, SEATTLE.

THE TWO-BLOCK WALK FROM THE BUS STOP ON BROAD-WAY to her apartment was a terrifying ordeal late at night. Reluctantly she left the small island of light cast by the streetlamp and started the treacherous journey into the darkness. At least it had stopped raining. She clamped her purse tightly to her side and clutched her keys the way she had been taught in the two-hour self-defense cla.s.s the hospital had offered to its staff. The small jagged bits of metal protruded between her fingers like claws.

Should never have agreed to take the night shift, she thought. But the extra pay had been too tantalizing to resist. Six months from now she would have enough saved up enough to buy a used car. No more lonely, late-night rides on the bus.

She was a block and a half from her apartment when she heard the footsteps behind her. She thought her heart would stop. She fought her instincts and forced herself to turn around and look. A man emerged from a nearly empty parking lot. For a few seconds the streetlight gleamed on his shaved head. He had the bulky form of a bodybuilder on steroids. She relaxed a little. She did not know him but she knew where he was going.

The big man disappeared through the gla.s.s doors of the gym. The small neon sign in the window announced that it was open twenty-four hours a day. It was the only establishment on the street that was still illuminated. The bookstore with its window full of occult books and Goth jewelry, the p.a.w.n shop, the tiny hair salon, and the payday loan operation had been closed for hours.

The gym was not one of the upscale fitness clubs that catered to the spandex-and-yoga crowd. It was the kind of facility frequented by dedicated bodybuilders. The beefy men who came and left the premises did not know it but she sometimes thought of them as her guardian angels. If anything ever happened to her on the long walk home, her only hope was that someone inside the gym would hear her scream and come to help.

She was almost at the intersection when she caught the shift of shadows in a doorway across the street. A man waited there. Was he watching her? Something about the way he moved told her that he was not one of the men from the gym. He wasn't pumped up on steroids and weights. There was instead a lean, sleek, almost predatory air about him.

Her pulse, already beating much too quickly, started to pound as the fight-or-flight response kicked in. There was a terrible p.r.i.c.kling on the nape of her neck. The urge to run was almost overwhelming but she could hardly breathe now. In any event she had no hope of outrunning a man. The only refuge was the gym but the dark silhouette on the other side of the street stood between her and the entrance. Maybe she should scream. But what if her imagination had gotten the better of her? The man across the street did not seem to be paying any attention to her. He was intent on the entrance of the gym.

She froze, unable to make a decision. She watched the figure on the other side of the street the way a baby rabbit watches a snake.

She never heard the killer come out of the shadows behind her. A sweaty, masculine hand clamped across her mouth. A sharp blade p.r.i.c.ked her throat. She heard a clatter of metal on the sidewalk and realized that she had just dropped her only weapon, the keys.

"Quiet or you die now," a hoa.r.s.e voice muttered in her ear. "Be a shame if we didn't have time to play."

She was going to die, anyway, she thought. She had nothing to lose. She dropped her purse and tried to struggle but it was useless. The man had an arm around her throat. He dragged her into the alley, choking her. She reached up and managed to rake her fingernails across the back of his hand. She would not survive the night but she could d.a.m.n well collect some of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's DNA for the cops.

"I warned you, b.i.t.c.h. I'm really going to take my time with you. I want to hear you beg."

She could not breathe and the hand across her mouth made it impossible to scream. To think that her fallback had always been the plan to yell for help from the gym.

The alley was drenched in night but there was another kind of darkness enveloping her. With luck she would suffocate from the pressure of his arm on her throat before he could use the knife, she thought. She'd worked in the trauma center at Harborview. She knew what knives could do.

A figure loomed at the entrance of the alley, silhouetted by the weak streetlight behind him. She knew it was the man she had seen in the doorway across the street. Two killers working as a team? She had sunk so far into panic and despair that she wondered if she was hallucinating.

"Let her go," the newcomer said, coming down the alley. His voice promised death as clearly as the knife at her throat.

Her captor stopped. "Get out of here or I'll slit her throat. I swear I will."

"Too late." The stranger walked forward. He was not rushing in, but there was something lethal and relentless about his approach; a predator who knows the prey is trapped. "You're already dead."

She felt something then, something she could not explain. It was as if she was caught in the center of an electrical storm. Currents of energy flooded her senses.

"No," her captor shouted. "She's mine."

And then he was screaming, horror and shock mingling in a nerve-shattering shriek.

"Get away from me," he shouted.

Suddenly she was free; falling. She landed with a jolt on the damp pavement. The man with the knife reeled back and fetched up against the alley wall.

The unnerving energy evaporated as swiftly and mysteriously as it had appeared.

The killer came away from the wall as though he had been released from a cage.

"No," he hissed, madness and rage vibrating in the single word.

He lurched toward the other man. Light glinted on the knife he still clutched.

More energy shivered in a heavy wave through the alley.

The killer screamed again, a shrill, sharp screech that ended with stunning abruptness. He dropped the knife, clutched at his chest, and dropped to the pavement.

The dark figure loomed over the killer for a moment. She saw him lean down and realized that he was checking for a pulse. She knew that he would not find one. She recognized death when she saw it.

The man straightened and turned toward her. Fear held her immobile. There was something wrong with his face. It was too dark to make out his features but she thought she could see a smoldering energy in the dark spheres where his eyes should have been.

Another wave of panic slammed through her, bringing with it a fresh dose of adrenaline. She scrambled to her feet and fled toward the street, knowing, even as she ran, that it was hopeless. The creature with the burning eyes would cut her down as easily as he had the killer with the knife.

But the monster did not pursue her. A block away she finally stopped to catch her breath. When she looked back she saw nothing. The street was empty.

She had always hoped that if the worst happened on the way home she might get some help from the men in the gym. But in the end it was a demon that had saved her.

Chapter 1.

DREAMLIGHT GLOWED FAINTLY ON THE SMALL STATUE of the Egyptian queen. The prints were murky and thickly layered. A lot of people had handled the object over the decades but none of the prints went back any further than the late eighteen hundreds, Chloe Harper concluded. Certainly none dated from the Eighteenth Dynasty.

"I'm afraid it's a fake." She lowered her senses, turned away from the small statue, and looked at Bernard Paddon. "A very fine fake, but a fake nonetheless."

"d.a.m.n it, are you absolutely certain?" Paddon's bushy silver brows scrunched together. His face reddened in annoyance and disbelief. "I bought it from Crofton. He's always been reliable."

The Paddon collection of antiquities put a lot of big city museums to shame but it was not open to the public. Paddon was a secretive, obsessive collector who h.o.a.rded his treasures in a vault like some cranky troll guarding his gold. He dealt almost exclusively in the notoriously gray world of the underground antiquities market, preferring to avoid the troublesome paperwork, customs requirements, and other a.s.sorted legal authorizations required to buy and sell in the aboveground, more legitimate end of the trade.

He was, in fact, just the sort of client that Harper Investigations liked to cultivate, the kind that paid the bills. She did not relish having to tell him that his statue was a fake. On the other hand, the client she was representing in this deal would no doubt be suitably grateful.

Paddon had inherited a large number of the Egyptian, Roman, and Greek artifacts in the vault from his father, a wealthy industrialist who had built the family fortune in a very different era. Bernard was now in his seventies. Sadly, while he had continued the family traditions of collecting, he had not done such a great job when it came to investing. The result was that these days he was reduced to selling items from his collection in order to finance new acquisitions. He had been counting on the sale of the statue to pay for some other relic he craved.

Chloe was very careful never to get involved with the actual financial end of the transactions. That was an excellent way to draw the attention not only of the police and Interpol but, in her case, the extremely irritating self-appointed psychic cops from Jones & Jones.

Her job, as she saw it, was to track down items of interest and then put buyers and sellers in touch with each other. She collected a fee for her service and then she got the heck out of Dodge, as Aunt Phyllis put it.

She glanced over her shoulder at the statue. "Nineteenth century, I'd say. Victorian era. It was a period of remarkably brilliant fakes."

"Stop calling it a fake," Paddon sputtered. "I know fakes when I see them."

"Don't feel bad, sir. A lot of major inst.i.tutions like the British Museum and the Met, not to mention a host of serious collectors such as yourself, have been deceived by fakes and forgeries from that era."

"Don't feel bad? I paid a fortune for that statue. The provenance is pristine."

"I'm sure Crofton will refund your money. As you say, he has a very good reputation. He was no doubt taken in, as well. It's safe to say that piece has been floating around undetected since the eighteen-eighties." Actually, she was sure of it. "But under the circ.u.mstances, I really can't advise my client to buy it."

Paddon's expression would have been better suited to a bulldog. "Just look at those exquisite hieroglyphs."

"Yes, they are very well done."

"Because they were done in the Eighteenth Dynasty," Paddon gritted. "I'm going to get a second opinion."

"Of course. If you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way." She picked up her black leather satchel. "No need to show me out."

She went briskly toward the door.

"Hold on, here." Paddon rushed after her. "Are you going to tell your client about this?"

"Well, he is paying me for my expert opinion."

"I can come up with any number of experts who will give him a different opinion, including Crofton."

"I'm sure you can." She did not doubt that. The little statue had pa.s.sed for the real thing since it had been created. Along the way any number of experts had probably declared it to be an original.

"This is your way of negotiating for an additional fee from me, isn't it, Miss Harper?" Paddon snorted. "I have no problem with that. What number did you have in mind? If it's reasonable I'm sure we can come to some agreement."