After Dark (5 page)

“Yes, sir.”

Emmett considered that for a moment while Renny twitched uneasily. Striking a bargain with Mercer Wyatt definitely came under the heading of risky business. But if he got some assistance from the Guild out of the deal, it just might be worth it.

“Tell Wyatt I'll call him in the morning,” Emmett said.

Renny blinked a couple of times. “You mean you ain't gonna accept right now?”

“No. I want to think about this for a while.” Emmett turned away again.

“Mr. Wyatt's not gonna like being told he's gotta wait,” Renny called out behind him.

“I warned you that being a messenger was a high-risk job,” Emmett said. He walked off into the fog.

L
YDIA WAS NOT
sure what it was that awakened her. It could have been Fuzz shifting his weight at the foot of the bed. She lay unmoving and opened all of her senses.

The unmistakable aura of psi energy vibrated in the air around her.

“Damn.”

She knew this prickling sensation all too well.

“Fuzz. Don't move.”

The dust-bunny made a low rumbling sound, not a purr but a hissing growl. Lydia sat up cautiously, searching the shadows swiftly for what she knew had to be there.

The bedroom was not very dark. After the Lost Weekend incident, she had altered more than one routine. These days she left the light on in the adjoining bathroom all night long. In addition, she slept with the curtains open to allow the reflected glow of the streetlamps and some moonlight into the bedroom. There had been other changes, too. She wore one of her personalized amber bracelets to bed and kept half a dozen others scattered around the apartment.

Forty-eight hours in the catacombs had left their mark.

She saw Fuzz's eyes first—his second pair, the ones he used for hunting. They glowed a fiery gold in the dimly lit room. Fuzz was seriously concerned. That meant that she was not overreacting.

She swept the rest of the bedroom, seeking the telltale glow.

Nothing.

The whisper of energy shimmered again in the air. Lydia concentrated. No doubt about it, a ghost had invaded her bedroom. But it had not yet materialized.

“Just a tingle. A small one, Fuzz.”

Of course it was a small ghost, she thought, desperately trying to reassure herself and the dust-bunny at the same time. Here in the Old Quarter, psi energy leaked freely out of unseen cracks in the Dead City. Nevertheless, even a strong ghost-hunter could summon only a small manifestation of dissonance energy outside the catacombs.

But the conclusion was obvious. If there was a ghost in the vicinity, there was a ghost-hunter somewhere nearby. Unstable Dissonance Energy Manifestations did not appear on their own outside the catacombs. And the only folks who could manipulate energy ghosts were ghost-hunters.

A shadow moved on the balcony outside her window. Lydia turned her head quickly, but she caught only a fleeting glimpse of a figure.

“Pervert!”
she shouted.

The shadow disappeared from sight.

She longed to give chase, but she had to deal with the ghost first. Even small UDEMs could do a considerable amount of damage.

She eased aside the bedclothes, got to her feet, and scooped Fuzz off the quilt. The dust-bunny did not relax in her arms. His hunting eyes were twin flames in the shadows. His small body trembled. Lydia caught a glimpse of fang. He was staring at the space above her pillow.

The ghost began to materialize. Acid-green energy pulsed erratically. Lydia edged back toward the door. Fuzz hissed.

“Take it easy. There's nothing either of us can do except stay out of its way until it vaporizes. It really is pretty small. I doubt it will last more than a few minutes.”

She did not turn her back on the ghost as she retreated into the hall. The green glow of the coalescing form grew steadily more intense.

“That bastard out on my balcony probably thinks this is very funny. If I find out who it is, I'm going to turn him in to the cops. Summoning ghosts outside the Dead City is illegal, and everyone knows it.”

But the vow was a waste of breath. Even if she managed to discover which of the neighborhood toughs had pulled this vicious trick on her tonight, the police were unlikely to get involved. At most, someone would contact the Guild authorities and report the incident. The Guild might or might not take action.

Fuzz growled again. His hunting eyes gleamed more fiercely.

In the air above her bed, the green ball of energy started to move. There was an audible crackle as it floated closer to the wall. Lydia grew more uneasy. There was no sign that the ghost was weakening. More disturbing was the fact that it did not seem to be moving randomly now.

Fuzz stared, unblinking, at the pulsating energy ball over the bed. Lydia knew that there was nothing either of them could do about the ghost except stay out of its way and hope that it did no serious damage. Only a dissonance-energy para-resonator—a ghost-hunter—could summon one; only a hunter could de-rez it.

The small, pulsing green specter was almost touching the wall over the bed now. Lydia watched in frustration.

Then she smelled scorched paint.

“My wall!”
Lydia whirled and ran down the hall, barely avoiding a collision with the small end table she had put there because there was no other space for it.

She dashed into the kitchen, tossed Fuzz onto the counter, flung open the door under the sink, and grabbed the household fire extinguisher, then raced back toward her bedroom.

Fuzz gamely tumbled down from the counter and scampered after her.

“It can't last much longer,” she told him. “It just
can't.
Not here, outside the wall.”

The smell of burning paint reached her before she got back to the bedroom doorway. She rounded the corner just in time to see the eerie green glow wink out of existence.

“It's gone.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Told you it couldn't last, Fuzz.”

The odor of charred paint was unpleasantly strong. Lydia groped for the light switch, flipped it. And then groaned when she saw the scorch marks the ghost had left on the formerly pristine white surface of the wall.

With the immediate danger past, she whirled and went to the window. She was just in time to see a figure garbed in dark clothing vanish up a rope ladder that dangled from the roof. As she watched, outraged, the ladder was pulled up and out of sight. She yanked open the window and leaned out.

“Little punk! If I ever get my hands on you—”

But the jerk was gone, and she knew the odds of learning his identity were virtually zip.

That was when the full implications of the situation hit her. She had given her landlord so much trouble lately that he would probably seize upon any excuse to terminate her lease. Fire and smoke damage no doubt came under the heading of “willful destruction of property by tenant” or some other vague clause in the contract.

“If Driffield finds out about this, we're fried, Fuzz.”

 

Emmett glanced at the amber face of his watch as he got out of the Slider. It was barely seven o'clock. The morning sun had not yet penetrated the blanket of fog that had crawled in from the river late last night.

He walked across the small, cramped parking lot of the Dead City View Apartments, let himself in through the broken security gate, and started up the stairwell.

He had called twice before leaving the hotel, but Lydia had not answered her phone. Probably in the shower, he thought. He had considered waiting until she got to work before he talked to her, but in the end he'd decided it would be better if he spoke to her outside Shrimpton's museum.

He was halfway down the dingy corridor to her door before the obvious explanation for Lydia's failure to answer her phone this morning occurred to him. Maybe she had spent the night somewhere other than her own apartment.

For some obscure reason, that possibility irritated him. She was
his
consultant. He had first claim on the hours that she did not spend at Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors.

He started to lean on the doorbell, recalled that it did not function, and knocked instead. The door opened with unexpected speed. He caught a whiff of fresh paint.

“Stop by to see the damage you caused, you little thug?” Lydia jerked the door wide. “If you think I won't go to the cops just because you're a kid, you—” She broke off, her eyes widening in shock. “Mr. London.”

He studied her with deep interest. Clearly, she had not yet dressed for her job at Shrimpton's. She wore an old denim shirt and a pair of well-worn, faded jeans. Her fiery hair was held back off her face with a wide blue band. The style underscored the intriguing angles of her face. There was a paintbrush in her left hand.

The dust-bunny was perched on her shoulder, looking like a dirty cotton ball. Blue eyes blinked innocently at him.

“Little thug?” Emmett repeated politely.

A deep red blush crept up Lydia's throat into her cheeks. “Sorry about the greeting,” she said gruffly. “I, uh, was expecting someone else.”

He glanced at the paintbrush. “Does this mean you won't be going to your office at the museum today?”

“I wish.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, I've got less than two hours to finish repainting my bedroom wall, get changed, and get to work. Look, I know you're here because you want an update on how my search for your heirloom is going, but I really don't have time to talk right now.”

“I can see that. Mind if I ask why you didn't wait until the weekend to undertake a major household-remodeling project?”

“I don't have much choice. One of the neighborhood ghost-hunter wanna-bes paid me a visit last night. Pulled a particularly nasty prank.”

Emmett moved into the small foyer without waiting for an invitation. “What kind of prank?”

“He managed to summon a small ghost. It materialized in my bedroom. I don't know if he meant to do damage or if the UDEM just got away from him. Whatever, my wall looks like someone tried to use it for a barbecue grill. If my landlord finds out about the damage, he'll probably try to use it as an excuse to cancel my lease.”

“I'll give you a hand,” Emmett said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her astonishment amused him for some reason. “I can paint a wall.”

“Oh.” She glanced uncertainly down the hall. “It's very nice of you to offer to help, but—”

He removed the brush from her hand. “Let me have that.” He started down the hall.

“Wait.” She hurried after him. “You'll ruin that spiffy jacket. It looks like it cost a fortune. I can't afford to replace it for you.”

“Don't worry about the jacket.” He came to a halt in the bedroom doorway and studied the scene.

He had invited himself inside because he needed to see the evidence of ghost damage. Neighborhood punk or not, the fact that his new consultant had received a “visitation” within twenty-four hours of going to work for him set off several alarm bells.

Even though he was here to examine the wall, the first thing he noticed was the unmade bed. There was something very intimate about the sight of the tangled white sheets and rumpled quilt. Lydia had slept here last night. Alone, from all indications. He felt the same whisper of sexual awareness that he had experienced the other morning at Shrimpton's when he had interviewed her. The sensation was stronger this time. He wondered how much of a complication it would prove to be.

Lydia came up behind him in the doorway. He forced his attention back to the matter at hand.

The bed had been pushed away from the wall. A sheet spread out on the floor served as a makeshift tarp. A bucket of white paint sat on the sheet. Rags were piled in a heap.

Emmett looked at the smoky traces on the wall. Three wavy lines. A chill settled in his gut.

“We've got a problem,” he said.

“I know I've got a problem. His name is Driffield. But as you can see, I'm almost half finished with that wall. If you'll just get out of my way—”

Emmett shook his head a single time, his gaze still on the marks that had been burned into the paint. “Your landlord is not your biggest issue right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

He did not answer right away. Hell, maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe he was letting his imagination run riot. It was just barely possible the marks were merely random.

He walked slowly into the room, examining the singed paint. The more closely he looked, the more he knew that his first reaction had been the right one. The marks were not the haphazard scorching of a small out-of-control ghost. Admittedly it was sloppy work, but he could make out the design. The three wavy lines were unmistakable.

“Your neighborhood punk didn't do this,” Emmett said.

“Don't bet on it. We've got some strong young budding ghost-hunters around here. Future hoodlums, all of 'em. And all itching to join the Guild.”

“I don't care how strong they are. Those burn marks are deliberate. They aren't random scorches. Whoever summoned the ghost had it under full control. No untrained dissonance-energy para-rez could have managed that degree of accuracy with a wild ghost.”

She eyed him uneasily. “Do you really think so?”

“Yeah,” Emmett said very quietly. “I really think so. We need to talk.”

She studied him for a long moment. “You think this has something to do with your missing cabinet, don't you?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated. “Okay, we'll talk. But the conversation will have to take place some other time. Right now I've got to get this wall painted, and then I have to get to work.”

She snatched the paintbrush back out of his hand, stepped around him, and started toward the wall.

His first impulse was to grab the brush again, but he resisted the temptation. Maybe he'd been wrong about her relationship with Chester Brady. Maybe he'd been wrong about some other things as well. He was still winging it, he reminded himself. Still playing it by ear. So much depended on hitting the right notes.

“I'll take you to dinner tonight,” he said. “We'll talk then.”

She frowned. “What is this? Has something changed since yesterday?”

He glanced at the design that had been etched into her wall. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

She gave him a steely look. “I'd better remind you that we have a contract, Mr. London.”

“I'm aware of that, Miss Smith. Like I said, I'll fill you in this evening. In the meantime, don't make any further inquiries concerning my cabinet.”