“Yes, well, that’s probably because the Winterses’ legend ended badly,” she said without stopping to think. She winced when she heard her own words. “Sorry.”
He gave her another thin, ice-and-lava smile. “No need to apologize. You’re right. There have always been those who say that the Winters family tree is the dark side of Arcane.”
“But the thing is, the stories are all myths,” she insisted. “Don’t tell me you really believe you’re going to turn into some kind of psychic monster.”
He just looked at her, not speaking.
“You do believe it,” she said finally.
He remained silent.
She spread her hands. “But that’s ridiculous. If you had some genetic abnormality that involved your para-senses it would have manifested itself by now. Talent of any kind, abnormal or otherwise, always shows up in the teens and early twenties. No offense, but you don’t look like a teenager.”
“I’m thirty-six. According to the stories I managed to turn up, that’s the age Nicholas Winters was when he became a double-talent.”
A chill fluttered through her. “You’re not going to stand there and tell me that you actually believe that you are a monster, are you?”
“I don’t know what I am, Chloe, or what I’m becoming. But I do know that historically J&J has a shoot, shovel and shut-up policy when it comes to dangerously unstable multi-talents.”
“Oh, I really don’t think—”
“Not much else you can do with a Cerberus.”
“Cerberus?” Horrified, she stared at him. “For heaven’s sake, you aren’t some sort of mythical, three-headed dog guarding the gate of hell.”
“Find my lamp, Miss Harper. I don’t care what it costs. Name your price.”
3
Scargill Cove, California
Fallon Jones looked out the window of his second-story office. There were no three-story offices in the small town, no buildings higher than his own, not even the tiny six-room inn at the far end of the street.
It was afternoon but the sky was leaden. Down below the cliffs the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean was the color of steel. Another storm was moving in from the sea.
The tiny village clinging to the Northern California coast was a throwback to another era, with its craft and crystal shops, seaweed harvesting business and New Age bookstore. The terminally green, fiercely no-growth town council had long ago outlawed paper and plastic along with chain restaurants and condos. Not that any restaurant chains or condo developers had ever shown any interest in Scargill Cove. The community was, for all intents and purposes, lost in its own private time warp. It was the ideal setting for a psychic detective agency.
From his window he had an excellent view of the Sunshine Café. Earlier that morning he had watched Isabella open the small coffee shop at six-thirty. Right on time, as usual. She had arrived wearing her gleaming yellow raincoat. As usual. He had watched her turn over the CLOSED sign in the window as usual, and then, as usual, she had looked up at his office window and given him a cheery wave and a bright smile. He had lifted his hand in response. As usual.
The silent, distant acknowledgment of each other’s presence had become a ritual for both of them. It was repeated every afternoon at five-thirty, when Isabella closed the café. He found himself looking forward to it every day. That was probably not a good sign.
She always seemed to know when he was there, at the window, watching.
Well, she probably did know, he thought, feeling like an idiot. He was certain that Isabella Valdez was a high- level sensitive, most likely an intuitive talent, although he wasn’t sure whether or not she was aware of her psychic nature. He could feel her energy. It thrilled his senses in ways he could not explain.
She was definitely not Arcane. He had checked the files himself two weeks earlier when she had moved into town and taken the job at the Sunshine. When he’d found no record of any Isabella Valdez that matched her age and description in the Society’s database, he had immediately expanded the background check, pulling in all the considerable resources at his disposal.
Nothing personal, he told himself, just a reasonable precaution. A powerful talent moves into the same small, undiscovered dot on the map where the headquarters of the West Coast branch of the Society’s investigation agency just happens to be located? Yeah, sure. What were the odds?
His first thought was that she had to be a Nightshade operative. But he’d called in two of his best aura-talents, Grace and Luther Malone. They had flown in from Hawaii yesterday, landing in San Francisco. After they had picked up a car, they had driven up the coast to Scargill Cove.
From his window he had watched them park in front of his office and cross the street to the Sunshine Café, looking for all the world like a couple of tourists in search of a cup of coffee. Twenty minutes later they had climbed the single flight of stairs to his office.
“She’s clean, Mr. Jones,” Grace said. “There are no signs of the drug in her aura.”
Grace always called him Mr. Jones. He liked that. So few of his agents showed him the sort of respect that one expected from an employee. Most had an attitude.
Technically speaking his agents were independent consultants who worked under contract to J&J. In addition to possessing psychic talents of one kind or another, they were smart, resourceful and capable of thinking for themselves in the field. The combination made for good, reliable investigators but, unfortunately, was usually coupled with the attitude problem.
Grace was different. She was unfailingly polite and respectful. More important, however, was her ability to detect indications of the effects of a certain dangerous drug that had the capability of greatly enhancing the psychic senses. Luther possessed the same talent. Their abilities had given J&J another weapon to use in their struggle with the shadowy organization known as Nightshade.
Nightshade was a threat not just to Arcane but to the whole country. Fallon and everyone else at the top of the Society knew that they were on their own in the underground struggle against a ruthless opponent. Regular law enforcement, the intelligence community and government officials had their hands full dealing with standard-issue bad actors like criminals and terrorists. No one wanted to hear about a bunch of psychic mobsters who had re-created an ancient alchemical formula that gave the users powerful paranormal talents. Hell, no one would even give credence to such a wild conspiracy theory.
“Okay, no signs of the drug in her aura,” Fallon said, not wanting to let Grace and Luther know that he felt as if a mountain had just been lifted from his shoulders. “But it’s possible Nightshade has started using operatives who aren’t yet taking the formula.”