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  “Harmonic artifact?”

  “Yes.” There was no mistaking the resonance. She was a para-archaeologist, after all. One of the best. “But there’s something different. I could swear I’m picking up a trace of trap energy. But that’s impossible. No traps have ever been found outside the Dead Cities. No way to anchor them.”

  “Never say never when it comes to the ancient Harmonics. There’s still one hell of a lot that we don’t know about them. Be careful, Lydia.”

  “Hey, I’m the expert here, remember?”

  “I remember,” he said. “Be careful anyway.”

  “I’ll bet you were a real pain to work with when you ghost-hunted professionally.”

  “It was mentioned from time to time,” he agreed. “On the plus side, I never lost a single para-archaeologist.”

  She ignored him, turning the paper sack cautiously in her hands. Then she opened it very carefully and looked inside. In the dim light she could just barely make out a dark, rounded object about the size of her two hands clasped together.

  “There’s something strange about the resonance,” she said. “It’s definitely genuine. Very, very old. But the vibrations are different from anything else I’ve ever sensed from artifacts this old.”

  “Still catching traces of trap energy?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s too much else going on here. It feels almost like—” She broke off abruptly. It was never good policy to make a fool of oneself in front of the client.

  “Like what?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Lydia held the paper sack cradled in both hands and tried to get a grip on her runaway imagination. Impossible, she thought. It couldn’t be.

  But what if?

  Her euphoria evaporated as another what if occurred to her. What if she really had lost her para-rez pitch, just as Ryan and the others assumed? What if the disaster six months ago was only now producing a delayed reaction? What if she was wrong?

  “Lydia? You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s inside the sack?”

  Emmett’s calm voice brought her out of the downward spiral. She stared through the window of the Slider and saw that they had left the busy city streets behind. They were climbing one of the hills above town, a neighborhood of exclusive estates. Massive gates guarded the long drives that led to the mansions.

  “Lydia? Are you going to tell me what’s inside the sack?”

  “Yes.” There was only one way to find out if she held something truly incredible in her hands or if she should check into a nice, quiet para-psych ward first thing tomorrow morning.

  Deep breaths.

  She took one, steeled herself, and reached into the sack. Another, much stronger shock of tingling excitement went through her when she actually touched the warm, smooth surface.

  “It feels like a bottle,” she whispered.

  Emmett did not take his eyes off the winding road. “What about the trap energy you said you felt?”

  “Stop worrying. I know what I’m doing.”

  He said nothing, but he pulled the Slider over to the side of the road and de-rezzed the engine. He turned in the seat to watch intently as she slowly removed the artifact from the paper sack.

  She saw at once that she had been right about the bottle shape.

  “What the hell is it?” Emmett asked softly.

  “An unguent jar, I think.” She studied it more closely, trying to focus on the shimmering surface. “But not like any that I’ve ever seen.”

  She stared at the thing she held. In the dim backwash of illumination provided by the dashboard the sealed jar seemed to glow with an inner light of its own. Colors shifted, stirred, and swirled on the surface. She saw shades of reds and golds that had no name. They flowed into strange greens and blues before she could describe them.

  She swallowed hard. “Emmett? Please tell me I’m not seeing things. I really don’t want to have to go back into therapy.”

  He gazed fixedly at the jar. “Hell, that’s not—It can’t be. We need better light.”

  He reached into the console between the seats and removed a small flashlight. He rezzed it and aimed the beam at the ancient jar.

  For a long moment they both just sat and stared at the artifact. In the bright light of the flash, the colors on the surface of the bottle leaped into full, pulsing life. A rest less sea of light and darkness surged around the widest portion of the elegantly shaped jar. Each hue seemed to be animated by its own inner energy source. Vast depths of dazzling light and color appeared and disappeared.

  “Dreamstone,” Emmett said in a voice that held no inflection at all.

  “Impossible,” Lydia said again.

  “You know as well as I do that there’s nothing else it could be.” He took the jar from her and turned it slightly so that the flashlight beam played across its surface. “Pure worked dreamstone. Damn. Talk about a retirement plan.”

  Lydia shook her head slowly, unable to believe her eyes or her para-rez senses.

  Dreamstone was well named. Small deposits of it were occasionally found, usually embedded in clear quartz in the vicinity of dead volcanoes. Not only was it extremely rare but it had thus far defied any attempt to extract it from the protective quartz. It shattered at the slightest touch, simultaneously appearing to melt and fracture into microscopic shards.

  No technology yet devised by the human population on Harmony had been able to handle it without destroying it. For prospectors and mining companies, it was indeed the stuff of dreams. Beautiful to look at when it was found, it evaporated the instant you reached out to touch it.

  But the unguent jar in Emmett’s hand was firm and solid proof that the ancient Harmonics had discovered how to work dreamstone.

  Lydia felt the hair stir on the nape of her neck. “Maybe this is what got Chester killed.”

  “I’d say that is an excellent possibility.” Emmett gave the jar a quarter turn. “Incredible.”

  “Do you realize what this means?”

  “It means that if Chester had lived long enough to sell this to a museum or a private collector, he would have been set for life.”

  Lydia waved that aside. “The monetary value is beside the point. You can’t put a price on it, since nothing else like it has ever been found.”

  “Trust me, Lydia, you can put a price on anything.”

  “But the significance of worked dreamstone is absolutely extraordinary. Don’t you see? This jar means that it can be done. There must be a way to psychically tune dreamstone so that it can be manipulated like other raw materials. Who knows what properties it has in this form?”

  “Good question.” He did not look up from his examination of the jar.

  “Somewhere in their past, the Harmonics found a way to actually mine the stuff.”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned. He did not seem to be as impressed by the full implications of this staggering discovery as she was. Then again, he was a businessman, not an archaeologist. Make that ghost-hunter-businessman, she amended silently. Probably took a lot to impress him.

  Emmett gave the jar another turn. “I wonder where Brady found it?”

  “Who knows? Chester was a ruin rat. He was always exploring illegally on his own. He must have stumbled across this jar on one of his forays into the catacombs.”

  She watched as Emmett gave the jar another quarter turn, bringing another section into the beam of the flash light. When she saw the figure of a bird in flight imprisoned forever within the shifting rivers of color, she nearly stopped breathing altogether.

  “Emmett.”

  “I see it,” he said.

  Now he did sound impressed. As well he should be, she thought. In all the years in which humans had been excavating the ruins of the Harmonics, no one had ever come across any indication that the ancient people had indulged in representational art.

  The long-vanished inhabitants of the Dead Cities had left no pictures or drawings of animals, plant
s, or themselves. There were no seascapes or landscapes, no scenes of what the world had looked like to them or images of how they had seen themselves in their environment—at least none that humans could interpret.

  Until now.

  Now there was a small bird flying in the depths of a sea of colors flowing across the surface of a little jar that should not exist.

  Emmett straightened slowly and clicked off the flashlight. “Looks like your pal Brady made the most significant discovery since Caldwell Frost blundered into the ruins of Old Frequency and decided that someone had made him a god.”

  “I’m stunned,” Lydia whispered. “This is so amazing.”

  “Anything else in the duffel bag?”

  “What? Oh, right, the bag.” Lydia peered into the unzipped canvas carryall again and rummaged around. Her hand brushed against another envelope. “There’s something.”

  She withdrew the envelope and opened it. A photo fell out. She held it to the light and saw another picture of herself and Chester in a booth at the Surreal Lounge. There was a familiar volume of the Journal of Paraarchaeology propped in front of Chester, who was beaming proudly.

  “He did like photos of the two of you together, didn’t he?” Emmett said.

  “Yes.” She got teary again as she examined the photo. “He had several pictures taken of us.”

  “Must have fed his fantasy that the two of you were a couple.”

  “Probably.” She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. “This was a special one, though. I had just published a paper in the journal. Coauthored with Ryan, naturally. I had to fight tooth and nail, but I made sure that Chester got credit as a consultant on the project.”

  “Probably his only brush with legitimacy.”

  “I hadn’t realized until now how important it must have been to him,” she whispered.

  “You’d better put the jar in your purse until we get home.” Emmett handed it to her. “And whatever you do, don’t say anything about it in front of Mercer Wyatt and his wife.”

  “What do you think I am?” she asked as she rewrapped the jar and stashed it inside her purse. “Crazy?”

  Emmett’s mouth curved slightly as he rezzed the engine and pulled back onto the road. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  Lydia settled into her seat, clutching her purse very tightly. Excitement snapped and sizzled through her again. Euphoria followed in its wake. Worked dreamstone. And a picture of a bird.

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling very smug. “I appreciate that.”

  14

  MIDWAY THROUGH THE painfully formal dinner, Lydia reached a major conclusion about her hostess. She did not like Tamara Wyatt. More precisely, she did not like the way Tamara looked at Emmett when she thought no one was watching.

  The speculative gleam in Tamara’s gaze reminded Lydia of the way Fuzz looked when he peered at the pretzel jar. As if he was willing to devote a lot of thought and energy to a consideration of ways and means of removing the lid.

  Tamara was sleek and polished, with an indefinable edge of glamour that would set her apart in any room. Her dark hair was bound up in an elegant chignon that accented her aristocratic cheekbones and fine jawline. A fortune in gemstones sparkled at her throat. She wore amber set in gold in her ears. The deep décolletage of her gown stopped just short of being indiscreet.

  Lydia had realized when they had arrived an hour and a half earlier that Emmett had met both the Wyatts previously. Mercer and Emmett had greeted each other with polite civility. But something else had been going on between Tamara and Emmett just beneath the surface.

  It had taken her a little longer than it should have to recognize the resonance patterns between these two, Lydia thought. She excused herself for the delay. After all, she had been seriously distracted this evening. Approximately one-third of her attention was focused on the bizarre experience of being entertained by the head of the Cadence Guild. The remainder was consumed with speculation about the extraordinary little jar Chester had bequeathed to her. It was all she could do not to excuse herself every five minutes to run down the hall to check the elegant armoire where the butler had placed her purse.

  Calm down, she told herself as a white-gloved waiter removed the plate in front of her. If the jar wasn’t safe here in Mercer Wyatt’s mansion, it wasn’t safe anywhere. The only other place she’d seen with so much security was the University of Cadence Museum.

  “So, Lydia, you’re in the private consulting business?” Mercer asked with seemingly polite interest.

  Tamara smiled. “Rather young to have left university work, aren’t you? Most consultants tend to be older. More experienced.”

  Lydia pulled herself away from concerns about her purse. She ignored Tamara and studied Mercer instead.

  Mercer Wyatt had to be at least forty years older than his wife. Silver-haired, with hawklike features, he was a man who was clearly accustomed to the accoutrements of money and power. He wore his amber on his hands in the form of large, heavy rings. As head of the Guild, he would necessarily have to be a very powerful dissonance-energy para-rez, she thought.

  “It’s not routine for a para-archaeologist my age to go into the private sector,” Lydia said, “but it’s not unheard of.”

  Conversation to this point had consisted of the sort of superficial patter she had learned to tolerate at faculty teas. Lydia had a feeling that the real talking would be done after dinner.

  “Some people don’t fit into the academic bureaucracy very well,” Emmett said casually. “Just as some can’t tolerate the corporate environment. Lydia has what you’d call an entrepreneurial spirit.”

  Tamara gave Lydia a polished smile. “How did Emmett find you?”

  “I’m listed with the Society of Para-archaeologists as a consultant, and I advertise in the Journal of Paraarchaeology,” Lydia said smoothly.

  “That’s hardly a guarantee of honesty and integrity, is it?” Tamara said. “There are so many frauds and scam artists in the antiquities trade.”

  “Very true,” Lydia murmured. “But on the whole, I’d have to say that one’s odds of getting a dishonest P-A from the Society’s lists are considerably lower than the odds of getting a dishonest hunter from the Guild hall.”

  Tamara’s eyes darkened with anger. “The Guild maintains the strictest standards.”

  “Uh-huh.” Lydia spooned up a bite of the fruit ice that had been served for dessert. “Is that why I’ve had at least two break-ins recently by ghost-hunters?”

  Mercer pinned Emmett with a cold glare. “What the devil is she talking about?”

  Emmett shrugged. “You heard her. She’s had some unfortunate experiences with hunters recently. Kind of soured her view of the profession, I’m afraid.”

  Mercer turned back to Lydia. “Kindly explain yourself.”

  Lydia put down her spoon. “As the head of the Guild here in Cadence, you must be aware that there are some ghost-hunters running around the city committing illegal acts. What’s more, they are summoning ghosts to aid in the commission of those crimes. My apartment has been vandalized twice.”

  Mercer’s jaw clenched. He flicked a quick look at Emmett and then went back to Lydia. “Are you absolutely certain ghost-hunters were involved?”

  “I saw the ghosts they summoned,” she said very steadily. “Ask Emmett. He chased off one of the hunters. Would have caught him if the little sneak hadn’t had an accomplice waiting for him in the parking lot.”

  Mercer’s piercing gaze swung back to Emmett. “Is this true?”

  “All true,” Emmett said easily. “I assume you can assure us that the intruders were not working for the Guild?”

  “Of course they weren’t working for the Guild.” Mercer flung down his napkin and stood abruptly. “I assure you, I will have my people look into the matter. The Guild polices its own.”

  “How convenient,” Lydia said politely.

  Mercer glowered at her.

  Lydia turned toward Tamara. “So, what’s it
like being the wife of the head of the Cadence Guild? What do you do besides go to the Restoration Ball every year?”

  “I manage to keep busy,” Tamara said coolly.

  Mercer studied her with obvious pride. “Tamara is an executive in her own right. Thanks to her, the Guild has established a very active foundation that funds several Cadence charities. She oversees the administration of the Foundation.”

  Tamara’s expression warmed noticeably under the praise. “I don’t do it all alone, of course. I am extremely fortunate to have Denver Galbraith-Thorndyke as my chief administrator. I’m sure you’re aware of the Galbraith-Thorndyke family’s long history here in Cadence?”

  “As in the Galbraith-Thorndykes who pretty much dominate the social scene?” Lydia was impressed in spite of herself. “Give tons of money to charity? Patrons of the University Museum, sit on all the important boards, et cetera, et cetera? Of course I’ve heard of them. I didn’t know they were connected to the Guild.”

  Mercer chuckled. “They weren’t—until Tamara approached them and asked young Denver to take over the job of administering the Guild Foundation.”

  “Nice move, Tamara,” Emmett congratulated her.

  “Thank you,” Tamara murmured. “I see it as a major first step toward elevating the image of the Guild in the community.”

  “Indeed,” Mercer said briskly. “A brilliant first step, if I do say so myself. Young Denver is a lawyer. He has connections with all of the movers and shakers in town.”

  “So how come he went to work for the Guild?” Lydia asked bluntly.

  Tamara looked annoyed, but Mercer merely chuckled.

  “Usual story,” he said easily. “Young scion of a rich and socially prominent family longs to prove himself to his father. Denver did not want to join the family law firm. Didn’t want to go to work for good old Dad, I suppose. He wanted to stand on his own two feet. Tamara offered him the Foundation job and he grabbed it.”

  “He’s very committed,” Tamara said.

  Mercer turned to Emmett. “You and I need to talk privately. Tamara, please take Lydia into the salon for tea. We will join you later.”