St Helens 02 Zinnia Read online

  "Several years ago one of the tabloids published a fanciful piece which claimed that the last Chastain expedition had discovered a treasure of some kind. Perhaps a huge deposit of fire crystal. The author suggested that the five members of the team had made a pact to conceal the location of the crystal and then faked their own disappearance."

  "So that they wouldn't have to turn the discovery over to the university officials?"

  "Yes." Newton chuckled. "Ridiculous theory, of course. If those five men had been secretly mining a vast quantity of fire crystal all these years, someone would have noticed. Fire crystal is so rare that if a lot of it suddenly came on the market, it would cause quite a stir."

  "True." Zinnia could not argue that point. "Still, the idea that the team found a treasure worth hiding is intriguing."

  "Bah. Five men could not have kept such a secret for long." Newton waved his shears at her. "Those men were abducted by aliens, Miss Spring. And then those same aliens plotted to remove all traces of the Third Expedition so that no one would figure out what had happened."

  "It seems a little unlikely," Zinnia suggested as gently as possible.

  "Not unlikely at all. Don't forget, we have proof that aliens have visited this planet in the past."

  "You're talking about the relics Lucas Trent found."

  "Indeed," Newton said.

  "But the experts say they're extremely ancient. Whoever left them behind has been gone for a thousand years or more."

  "That doesn't mean they didn't come back thirty-five years ago to kidnap Chastain and his men."

  "But why would they choose those five people?" Zinnia asked.

  "We may never know the answer to that, my dear. They are aliens, after all. Who can tell how their minds work?" Newton frowned. "You may want to stand back from that snap-tongue."

  "Snap-tongue?" Zinnia glanced down at a large, fleshy, throat-shaped leaf.

  "A clever little plant, if I do say so. It can take off a finger or two if you aren't careful. Watch this." Newton plucked a small plastic bag from his pocket and opened it to remove a strip of raw meat. He tossed the meat toward the snap-tongue plant.

  When the tidbit sailed past the leaf, a long, fleshy, tongue-like extension unfurled. It snagged the passing meal and bundled it swiftly downward into the sticky fibrous heart of the plant.

  Zinnia grimaced as the meat vanished down a green gullet. "I see what you mean."

  "The key to making it through my maze without any little accidents is to not touch anything," Newton said happily.

  Zinnia halted abruptly. "We're in a maze?"

  "Indeed. Hadn't you realized that yet?" Newton chuckled indulgently. "A matrix-talent friend designed it for me. It's constructed in such a way that anyone who enters it is funneled directly to the center. Once there, the visitor won't find his way out unless he knows the key."

  Zinnia glanced warily around. "Which you do know, I trust?"

  "Indeed, indeed. It's my maze, after all." Newton tapped a seemingly impenetrable wall of leaves. "Come along. Let's see some action."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I was speaking to my naughty little spike-trap here," Newton explained. "Usually it's a bit more active at this time of day but I suppose the slight frost this morning has slowed it down somewhat."

  "Slowed it down?" Zinnia took a step back.

  "I'll demonstrate." Newton touched the tip of his gardening shears to the impassive green wall one more time. "If I can wake it up, that is. Ah, there we go. About time, sleepy-head."

  Zinnia heard a soft, sibilant rustling. In the next instant a mass of long sharp thorns burst forth through the green leaves. She realized that any creature unlucky enough to have brushed up against the wall of green would have been impaled.

  "Interesting." She swallowed heavily.

  "I've been working on this hybrid for some years now." Newton looked pleased with himself. "In its natural habitat a spike-trap is rather small. The thorns can only pin insects or small birds. But my experiments have produced this version which could easily fell a medium-sized rabbit-mouse."

  Zinnia eyed the massed thorns. "And do serious damage to anything larger."

  "Indeed, indeed." Newton beamed. "As I said, the trick to enjoying my garden is to avoid touching anything unless you know exactly what you're doing."

  "I'll keep that in mind." Zinnia made certain that she was standing in the very center of the green passageway. "Have you ever heard any rumors about Chastain's last expedition journal?"

  "Journal?" Newton paused reflectively. "There must have been one, of course. After all, Chastain kept a journal for the first two expeditions. He was very meticulous in such matters. But the journal for the Third was no doubt lost when the aliens snatched him."

  Zinnia had a feeling that Nick would not appreciate her informing Demented DeForest that the journal of the Third Expedition had turned up recently. She was reluctant to admit it, but it was obvious that she was wasting her time with the professor.

  "You've been very helpful, sir. Thank you for answering my questions. I really should be on my way now."

  "Oh, you mustn't leave before you've seen the heart of my maze, my dear. It's a very special place, if I do say so, myself."

  "What's at the center?" she asked uneasily.

  "My water plant grotto, of course." Newton chortled as he ambled off down a dark green passage. "Come along, my dear. I'll show it to you. I'm very proud of my aquatic specimens."

  Zinnia's palms suddenly felt damp. She dried them on her jeans. "I don't have a lot of time, Professor."

  "Oh, you'll have time for this, my dear." Newton disappeared around a corner. "I love to show off my grotto. Besides, you can't get back to the house without me."

  "Professor DeForest, wait—"

  "This way, Miss Spring." Newton's voice grew fainter.

  Zinnia looked back the way she had come and realized she was completely lost. She could not identify which of the twisting corridors of green foliage had brought her to her present position. There was no choice but to follow Newton.

  "Professor DeForest, I really can't stay long," she said in what she hoped was a firm voice.

  "I understand, my dear." His voice grew fainter.

  Zinnia took one last glance over her shoulder. It was hopeless. She would never be able to find her way out without Newton.

  "Hold on, Professor, I'm coming. I can't wait to see your grotto."

  She hurried around a corner and nearly collided with Newton.

  "Ah, there you are." His eyes crinkled with cheery pleasure. "This way." He turned and trundled down another path. "Remember, don't touch anything."

  "Believe me, I won't." Zinnia followed reluctantly. "How do you find your way through this maze?"

  "Quite simple, my dear." He glanced back at her with his twinkling blue eyes. "I know my garden. Be careful of that Curtain plant. You wouldn't want to be standing too near when it closes."

  Zinnia edged around a heavy, drooping cascade of leaves. She thought she heard water bubbling somewhere in the distance. An unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation wafted past her nose.

  "Here we are, my dear," Newton said as he turned one last corner. "Lovely, isn't it? I spend so many enjoyable hours sitting on that stone bench over there."

  Zinnia walked cautiously around the corner and saw a rocky grotto covered in slimy green moss. A pool of dark water swirled around the opening of a stony cavern and disappeared into the black interior.

  Large evil-looking plants hunkered around the perimeter of the pool like so many hungry predators waiting for prey. Zinnia supposed that, given the general theme of the garden, that was not an overly imaginative image.

  Greasy-looking vines trailed across the entrance of the grotto. More vegetation floated on the surface of the dark pool. Zinnia glimpsed something large and tuberous inside the cave.

  "Most unusual," she said.

  Newton glowed with an almost paternal pride. "Thank you, my dear. I have dev
oted years to my plants. They are all unique. So nice to be able to show them off once in a while."

  Zinnia was about to suggest once again, in a tactful manner, that she had to leave. She paused when a thought struck her. "Professor, you must have made some notes in the course of your research."

  "Indeed, indeed. A great many. Haven't looked at them for years. They're filed away in the special place where I store all of the mementos of my career in academia."

  "Where is that?"

  "Beneath the house in the family crypt, of course." Newton gave her a wistful smile. "The perfect place for that sort of thing. My career in academia, after all, is as dead as my relatives. And, frankly, between you and me, my dear, I much preferred my career to my family. Nasty lot."

  A vision of Aunt Willy popped into Zinnia's mind. "I can sympathize with that feeling, Professor. I have one last question."

  "What's that, Miss Spring?"

  "You said that the University of New Portland officials were quite willing to believe that Bartholomew Chastain committed suicide."

  "They accepted the story without a qualm."

  "Why is that? Did Chastain have a history of psychological problems?"

  "No. But he was rumored to be a matrix-talent. Everyone knows how odd they are."

  It was after ten when Zinnia stepped out of the elevator and started down the hall to her loft apartment. She was exhausted. The late focus assignment had gone on much too long, as was often the case with matrix-talents. They had a tendency to lose themselves in the patterns they generated on the metaphysical plane. When that happened they enjoyed themselves so much that Zinnia hated to interrupt them. Unfortunately for them, Psynergy, Inc. billed by the hour.

  This evening the client, a matrix working in the field of biological synergism, had obsessed on an elaborate array of biosyn statistics. When Zinnia had gently reminded her of the passing time, the researcher had brushed the interruption aside. She had promised that the lab would cover the cost.

  Clementine would be pleased at the high bill the matrix had run up, Zinnia thought as she let herself into her loft. But right now, bed sounded far more exciting than a bonus in her paycheck. It had been a very long day.

  She yawned as she reached for the light switch.

  A shadow shifted in the darkness near the fireplace. Zinnia stopped yawning and prepared to start screaming.

  "Tell me," Nick said from the heavy Later Expansion Period reading chair. "What in five hells made you think you would get away with it?"

  "What?" She was so stunned, she could barely speak. Her hand fell away from the light switch, leaving the loft in darkness. "What do you mean?"

  "It's a very well-done forgery, I'll give you that much." Nick's eyes gleamed in the shadows. "But it's a fake from first page to last."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The journal, of course." His voice was infinitely soft, infinitely dangerous. "The one you so generously arranged for me to buy from Polly and Omar last night. It's a complete fraud."

  Zinnia took a step forward and paused. She was too dazed to think very clearly. "How do you know that?"

  "How do I know? This is how I know."

  Power slammed across the metaphysical plane, a great raw surge of it.

  Matrix-talent seeking a prism.

  Demanding a prism.

  Hunting a prism.

  Summoning a prism.

  Zinnia stopped breathing when she felt the questing presence of the psychic probe. There was something disturbingly familiar about it. Something that called to her as no other talent ever had. Instinctively she responded with a crystal-clear prism.

  A torrent of dazzling power crashed through it, emerging in great waves of controlled psychic energy.

  She knew this talent. She knew this man.

  "It was you," Zinnia whispered. "You're the vampire."

  Chapter 11

  She switched off the focus. And then she turned on the lights.

  For some reason the simple mundane action caught Nick off guard. Instinctively he suppressed the fiery storm of power that he had generated on the metaphysical plane. The prism Zinnia had created winked out of existence.

  "Great. Just great." Zinnia threw up her hands. "The end of a perfect day. I missed breakfast because I had to spend the morning with a loony professor and a bunch of blood-sucking plants. I missed dinner because I had to spend the evening boring myself silly holding the focus for a statistician. I walk in the front door, asking no more out of life than a glass of wine and a sandwich, and what do I find? A psychic vampire in the living room. It's too much. I quit."

  She gave Nick a withering look as she stalked across the open loft into the kitchen. She yanked open the icerator and jerked out a bottle of green wine.

  Nick rapidly reassessed matters as he watched her reach into a drawer and rummage around for a corkscrew. Things were not going as he had planned. He hated it when that happened.

  Ever since he had realized that the journal was a forgery, he had been obsessing on this confrontation with Zinnia. His rage at having been played for a fool was bad enough. The frustration he felt at having once again failed in his quest was even worse. But it was the knowledge that Zinnia had betrayed him that was gnawing at his guts.

  She had set him up. There was no other logical explanation.

  He did not understand the anguish that had welled up inside when he had forced himself to face the truth earlier that afternoon. He had not allowed anything or anyone to affect him this strongly for a long, long time.

  It infuriated him to know that he was reacting so intensely to what he should have foreseen as a possibility right from the start. He should never have trusted Zinnia.

  Nevertheless, in spite of the facts, more than anything else at that moment he wanted her to defend herself.

  Earlier, as he had brooded in his hidden office, he had envisioned a dozen different scenarios for this meeting. All of them had involved Zinnia desperately struggling to convince him that she had been duped by Polly and Omar. He wanted her to plead, to declare her innocence even though logic told him that she must have been in on the scam up to her elegant ears.

  "Where is the real journal?" he asked very softly. "Did you sell it to someone else? Or did you keep it for yourself? Did you buy into that old tabloid legend about my father's team discovering a fortune in fire crystal? Do you think the journal can lead you to it? If so, you're not nearly as intelligent as I had assumed."

  "Gosh, I'd hate to sink any lower in your opinion than I already have."

  "No one betrays me and gets away with it, Zinnia."

  "Don't waste your time trying to intimidate me tonight, Chastain." She came around the end of the counter with a long-stemmed glass of wine in her hand, walked to the antique sofa near the window, and sank down on it with a heartfelt sigh. Propping herself in one comer, she stretched out her legs on the cushions. "I'm too tired to be scared."

  "Better work up the energy for it because I'm not playing games."

  She took a slow meditative sip of wine and regarded him over the rim of the glass. "If that journal you bought off Polly and Omar last night is a fake, then I'm as much in the dark as you are."

  "You made all the arrangements for the transaction." The steady clarity of her gaze made him seethe. "You had to be in on it. The only thing I don't understand is why in five hells you thought you'd get away with it."

  She folded one hand behind her head. "Do you really believe this nonsense or is it just matrix paranoia talking?"

  "I am not paranoid," Nick said through his teeth. "But I am very good at detecting patterns, even without the aid of a prism. Not that it takes a matrix-talent to see the connections in this situation. A small child with a pencil could connect the dots."

  "Then I suggest you go find a small child with a pencil because you're not doing a very good job on your own." She took another sip of wine, leaned her head back against her folded arm, and closed her eyes. "Lord, am I tired. I hate s
tatistics."

  Fury swept through Nick. He shoved himself up out of the chair and crossed the room to the sofa. "Look at me, damn it."

  She opened her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for this, Mr. Chastain."

  He reached down and snatched the wine glass out of her hand. "Did you really think I'd be blinded by a few kisses and the promise of good sex?"

  "What promise? The only thing I agreed to was dinner." She raised her brows in mocking inquiry. "Speaking of which, I assume this performance means that the invitation for tomorrow night has been canceled?"

  Nick heard a sharp crack. Liquid flowed over his hand. He glanced down and was stunned to see that he'd snapped the fragile stem of the wine glass. He stared, shocked by the evidence of his loss of control. Blood and green wine dripped from his fingers onto the wooden floor.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. Now look what you've done." Zinnia got to her feet and started back toward the kitchen. "Come over to the sink. I'll get you cleaned up and then you can go back to your cave."

  Anger and despair washed through him. "Zinnia."

  He reached for her with his mind the way a drowning man lunges for a lifeline. He felt the familiar floating sense of disorientation as he sent out a psychic probe. Relief rushed through him when he sensed her response. He wished he was sitting down. The overwhelming impact of intense intimacy nearly drove him to his knees.

  Zinnia said nothing as she turned on the water faucet, but she offered him a prism on the metaphysical plane. It was crystal clear, very powerful. This time he took a few seconds to study it. He sensed that it could focus the full range of his talent. Never in his life had he ever been able to use his psychic gifts to the maximum.

  He could not resist. He sent talent crashing eagerly through the prism. The metaphysical construct did not waver. It channeled the full thrust of raw psychic power and converted it into finely tuned waves of energy. It was energy that could be used the way he used his hands or his ears or his eyes. Energy that was as natural and controllable as any of his other senses.

  He no longer had to grope for or deduce the patterns in the world around him. From the slightly irregular edges of the mosaic tiles on the kitchen walls to the myriad tiny sparkles on the surface of the water that poured from the faucet, the intricate designs of the surrounding matrix took on a whole new dimension on the metaphysical plane. Several dimensions, in fact. He could have studied them for hours, analyzing the connections, extrapolating the possibilities, assessing probabilities.