Canyons of Night Read online

  Myrna used the large cake knife to cut off a big square of chocolate and lemon cake for Rex. She put the cake on a paper plate and set it on the railing. Rex chortled gleefully and set about polishing off the treat with as much enthusiasm as he had previously reserved for Thelma Duncan’s zucchini bread.

  “Were you really surprised by the party, Chief?” Devin demanded for the fifth or sixth time.

  Slade smiled at him. “I was really surprised, trust me.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “We made everyone promise to keep it a secret,” Nate explained.

  Slade looked around at the faces of the people on the deck. “Shadow Bay could give the Bureau some lessons when it comes to keeping secrets.”

  There was another round of laughter. Slade made his way through the crowd and stopped near Charlotte and Rachel.

  “Happy birthday, Chief,” Rachel said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get in line for my slice.”

  She hurried off.

  Charlotte looked at Slade.

  “How is the cake?” she asked.

  “A whole lot better than Thelma Duncan’s zucchini bread,” Slade said. A look of soul-deep satisfaction lit his eyes. “In fact, I can state unequivocally that this is the very best cake I have ever eaten in my entire life.”

  Charlotte smiled.

  Devin waved a small, gaily wrapped gift in the air. “Time to open your present, Chief Attridge. Nate and I got it for you. It’s from Looking Glass.”

  Slade smiled at Charlotte. In his eyes she saw the heat and promise of a love that would last a lifetime.

  “In that case, I won’t have to worry about returning it to the store,” Slade said. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be just what I wanted.”

  He kissed her on the mouth there in front of their friends and neighbors. A roar of applause went up from the crowd.

  Slade raised his head and looked around.

  “You’re all invited to the wedding,” he said.

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  IN TOO DEEP

  The first novel in the Looking Glass Trilogy

  by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Now available from G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

  PARANORMAL FIRE BURNED IN THE DARKNESS. AURO ras of psi splashed across the ether. The night sky above San Francisco was ablaze with light from across the spectrum. Fallon Jones gripped the condo balcony railing with both hands, fighting to anchor himself to reality. There were spectacular patterns wherever he looked: wondrous, astonishingly intricate webs of connections and links that illuminated the path back to the heart of the universe.

  The dazzling radiance of the midnight world was compelling beyond anything he had ever experienced. He was certain that if he only looked closely enough, he would be able to distinguish the light from the dawn of creation, perhaps even grasp a fistful of the raw power of chaos that fueled the forces of life and death.

  “Good night for a walk, isn’t it?” Tucker Austin said.

  Fallon turned to look at the figure silhouetted in the opening of the sliding-glass doorway. There was something wrong. Tucker looked as if he stood on the other side of a waterfall. It was impossible to focus on him. He held something in his hand but Fallon could not make it out.

  “What are you doing here?” Fallon asked. He was vaguely aware that he sounded drunk. But he was almost positive that he’d had only one glass of wine with dinner.

  “We both know why I’m here.” Tucker moved out of the doorway and went to stand at the railing a short distance away. He kept the object in his hand out of sight against his left leg. “The magic lantern really slammed your senses, didn’t it? That’s one of the interesting side effects of the device. The higher the level of talent, the greater the impact. You are literally off the charts on the Jones Scale. That makes the lantern the ideal weapon to destroy you without arousing any suspicions. By now you’re lost out there on the paranormal plane. There’s no coming back from this trip.”

  “You came here to kill me,” Fallon said. A simple statement of fact, nothing more or less. It was good to know he was still able to think logically.

  “I did warn you that one day your talent would be the death of you.” Tucker sounded amused. “I’m not alone in that opinion, as I’m sure you’re aware. Fortunately, a lot of people are convinced that a chaos theory-talent as powerful as you is doomed. And there have always been those rumors about the men in your family who inherit that aspect of the founder’s talent. Everyone knows that Sylvester Jones was a paranoid whack-job at the end.”

  “Sylvester died more than four hundred years ago,” Fallon said. “No one knows what really happened to him at the end. And rumors are, by definition, not facts.”

  “But as you have often pointed out, an interesting rumor always has more influence than a boring fact.”

  Fallon shook his head once and blinked a couple of times, trying to bring Tucker into focus. The small motion caused the universe to shift around him. The disorientation was so fierce now that he had to clench his hand around the balcony railing to stay on his feet.

  “Why?” he asked. It was a foolish question. He knew the answer. But for some reason he wanted to hear Tucker put it into words. Then again, that had been the problem all along. He had wanted to believe Tucker Austin.

  “I’m afraid there’s no other way out.” Tucker rested both elbows on the railing and contemplated the night. “It’s either you or me this time. Survival of the fittest and all that. The magic lantern has certain hypnotic effects. In addition to creating those fascinating hallucinations you’re currently viewing, it makes you vulnerable to suggestion. For example, you feel like taking a walk off this balcony, don’t you?”

  “No,” Fallon said again. He tried to move, but when he took a step he stumbled and went down to his knees.

  Tucker gestured toward the building across the street. “You know what you should do, Fallon? You should cross that crystal bridge. Halfway over, you’ll have a terrific view of the heart of the universe. How can you resist?”

  Fallon tightened his grip on the railing and hauled himself upright. He tried to focus, but the crashing waves of the auroras that lit up the night were too distracting.

  “What bridge?” he asked.

  “Right there.” Tucker pointed. “It leads from this balcony to the roof of the building across the street. Just step over the railing and you’ll be on your way.”

  Fallon looked down. Strange machines moved on the street below. Lights glowed and flashed. Cars, some part of his brain whispered. Get a grip. You’re fourteen floors above the street.

  “Don’t you see the bridge?” Tucker asked. “It leads to all the answers, Fallon. You just follow the crystal brick road to find the wizard.”

  Fallon concentrated. A crystal bridge materialized in the night. The transparent steps were infused with an internal light. He pulled harder on his talent. The bridge brightened and beckoned. But a tiny sliver of awareness sliced through the wonder of the scene.

  “Think I’ve seen that bridge before,” he said.

  “Yeah?” For the first time Tucker sounded slightly disconcerted. “Where?”

  “In the movies. Damn silly plot but the special effects were mildly entertaining.”

  Tucker chuckled. “Leave it to Fallon Jones to come up with a logical explanation for a perfectly good hallucination. Well, it was worth a shot. But if you won’t do this the easy way, I guess we’ll have to go with Plan B.”

  He moved suddenly, bringing up the object in his hand. Fallon tried to raise one arm to block the blow, but his muscles would not obey. Instinctively he twisted aside, instead. He lost his balance and went down hard on the tiled floor.

  The object Tucker wielded was a hammer. It struck inches away from Fallon’s head. He heard the crack of the tiles. The entire balcony shuddered with the force of the blow.

  Somewhere in the night a woman started screaming.

>   “You crazy son of a bitch,” Tucker said. He raised the hammer for another blow. “You’re supposed to be out of your head by now.”

  Fallon rolled away and reached for more talent. The hammer struck the floor of the balcony again.

  He managed to scramble to his feet. The sparkling, iridescent night spun wildly around him.

  Tucker charged him in a violent rush. The promise of imminent death sent another rush of adrenaline through Fallon, producing a few seconds of brilliant clarity.

  He finally succeeded in getting a focus. For an instant the familiar features of the man he had considered a trusted friend were clearly visible in the light from the living room. Tucker’s face was twisted with a maddened rage. Fallon realized that he had never known the real Tucker until tonight.

  The shock of being so terribly, horribly wrong brought another dose of clarity. People had died because of Tucker Austin, and Fallon knew that he was, in part, to blame. He summoned up the full, raging force of his talent, reached into the heart of chaos and seized a fistful of fire. He hurled the invisible currents of paranormal radiation into Tucker’s aura. Not exactly Zeus with the lightning bolts but good enough to get the job done.

  Tucker grunted once, clutched at his heart, and instinctively reeled backward to escape the onslaught of energy. He fetched up hard against the balcony railing. He was a tall man. The barrier caught him at midthigh. The force of his momentum sent him over the edge.

  He did not scream, because he was already dead. But Jenny’s scream went on forever. Fallon knew he would hear it for the rest of his life.

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  QUICKSILVER

  The second novel in the Looking Glass Trilogy by Amanda Quick

  Now available from G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

  THE VISIONS OF BLOOD AND DEATH BLAZED VIOLENTLY in the mirrors. The terrible scenes, lit by gaslight, reflected endlessly into a dark infinity.

  Virginia lay very still for a moment, her heart pounding while she tried to make sense of the nightmare in which she had awakened. Myriad reflections of a woman lying on a tumbled, bloodstained bed surrounded her. The woman was dressed in only a thin linen chemise and white stockings. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders in tangled waves. She looked as though she had recently engaged in a passionate encounter. But her dazed eyes were wide with shock and horror, not fading desire.

  It took Virginia a few seconds to realize that the woman in the mirrors was herself. She was not alone in the bed. There was a man beside her. The front of his unfastened shirt was soaked in blood. His head was turned away, but she could see enough of his handsome face to recognize him. Lord Hollister.

  She sat up slowly, unconsciously letting go of some unseen object that she had been gripping in one hand. A part of her insisted that she was living through a dreadful dream, but her other senses warned her that she was awake. It took everything she had to touch the side of the dead man’s throat. There was no pulse. She had not expected to find one. The chill of death enveloped him.

  A fresh surge of panic flared through her. Tiny icicles lanced the back of her neck and the palms of her hands. She scrambled frantically out of the bed. When she looked down she noticed that a portion of her chemise was stained crimson. She raised her eyes and saw the knife for the first time. It was half hidden by the rumpled sheets. The blade was covered in blood. The hilt lay very close to where her hand had been a moment earlier.

  At the edge of her vision she saw disturbing shadows shift deep within the mirrors. She hurriedly shuttered her psychical senses. She could not deal with a reading just now. Her intuition was flaring wildly. She had to get out of the mirrored room.

  She turned quickly, searching for the new bronze-and-black gown that she had worn to the Hollister mansion that evening. She saw the dress and her petticoats. The garments were crumpled carelessly in the corner as if they had been hastily discarded in the throes of passion. The toes of her high-button walking boots were just visible beneath the folds of the cloak. For some incomprehensible reason, the thought that Hollister had partially undressed her before she had sunk a knife in his chest was more unnerving than awakening next to the body.

  Dear heaven, how could one kill a man but have no memory of the violence? she wondered.

  Dark energy seethed again in the mirrors. Fear and the need to escape were making it hard for her to control her senses. Once more she managed to suppress her talent. The shadows receded deeper into the looking glasses. She knew she could not banish those shadows entirely. It was no doubt still night outside. Glasslight energy trapped in mirrors was always strongest after dark. There were scenes lurking in the looking glasses surrounding her that she needed to confront, but she could not read the afterimages now. She had to get out of the room.

  She looked around and realized that there was no obvious door. The walls of the small chamber appeared to be covered in mirrors. But that was not possible, she thought. The air in the room was fresh. The gas lamp burned steadily. There had to be some concealed means of ventilation, and somewhere there was a door. And where there was a door there would be a draft over the threshold.

  Forcing herself to focus on one thing at a time, she crossed the chamber and picked up her gown. It took an enormous amount of effort to fasten the petticoats and pull the dress up around herself, because she was shivering so violently.

  She was struggling with the bodice, trying to get the front hooked, when she heard the soft sigh of concealed hinges. Another wave of panic rattled her nerves. She looked up quickly. In the mirrored wall before her she watched a glass panel open behind her.

  A man moved into the room, riding an invisible wave of dark power. She recognized him at once, even though they had met on only one occasion. But then, she would know him anywhere. A woman did not forget a man whose dark, shadowed eyes held the promise of heaven or hell. For an instant she could not move. She froze, the front of the gown clutched to her breasts.

  “Mr. Sweetwater,” she whispered.

  He gave her a swift, head-to-toe assessment. His hard, implacable face was sculpted in light and shadow by the glaring light of the lamp. His eyes narrowed faintly. In another man, the expression might have indicated concern. But this was Owen Sweetwater. She was certain that he did not possess anything resembling normal human emotions.

  There were only two possible explanations for his presence in the death chamber tonight: he was there to kill her or to save her. With Sweetwater there would be no middle ground.

  “Are you injured, Miss Dean?” he asked, as if merely inquiring after her health.

  The cool formality in his tone triggered a flash of clarifying indignation.

  “I’m unhurt, Mr. Sweetwater.” She glanced at the bed. “But the same cannot be said for Lord Hollister.”

  He crossed to the bed and studied Hollister’s body for a moment. Virginia sensed energy whisper through the room and knew that Owen had heightened his talent. She did not know the nature of the psychical ability he commanded, but she sensed that it was dangerous.

  Owen turned around. “Excellent work, Miss Dean, although somewhat untidy.”

  “What?”

  “It is clear that Hollister will no longer be a problem, but we must get you safely away from here before you are arrested for murder.”

  “No,” she managed.

  Owen’s brows rose. “You do not wish to leave this chamber?”

  She swallowed hard. “I meant I did not kill him.”

  At least I don’t think I did. She realized she had no memory of anything after she had read the looking glass in the bedroom of the Hollister mansion. She had no choice but to claim that she was innocent. If she were arrested for the murder of Lord Hollister, she would surely hang.

  He gave her another swift appraisal. “Yes, I can see that you did not plant that kitchen knife in his chest.”

  She was startled. “How can you know that I am innocent?”

  “We can discuss the details somewhere else at a mo
re convenient time,” Owen said. He came toward her, moving with the purposeful stride of a beast of prey closing in for the kill. “Here, let me do that.”

  She did not comprehend what he intended until he was directly in front of her, fastening the small hooks that closed the front of her gown. He worked with swift, economical movements, his hands steady and sure. If the fine hair on the back of her neck was not already standing on end, Owen’s touch would have electrified it. The energy around him charged the atmosphere and her senses. She was torn between an overpowering urge to run for her life and the equally strong desire to throw herself into his arms.

  That settled it, she thought. The events of the night had unhinged her mind. She could no longer trust any of her obviously shattered senses. She sought refuge in the self-mastery she had spent most of her life perfecting. Mercifully it came to her aid.

  “Mr. Sweetwater,” she said coldly. She stepped back quickly.

  His hands fell away. He gave the front of her gown a critical once-over. “That will do for now. It’s after midnight and the fog is quite thick. No one will notice you once we are outside.”

  “Midnight?” She reached down to the small chatelaine watch pinned to the waist of her gown. When she saw that he was right about the time, she shuddered. “I arrived at eight, as instructed. Dear heaven, I have lost four hours.”

  “I apologize for the delay in my own arrival. I did not get word that you were missing until an hour ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Later. Put your shoes on. We have an unpleasant walk ahead of us before we are free of this place.”

  She did not argue. She lifted her skirts and petticoats and shoved one stocking-clad foot into a boot. She did not bother with the laces.

  Owen contemplated the body on the bed while he waited. “You’re sure you are unhurt?”

  She blinked, trying to comprehend the lethal edge on his words.