Obsidian Prey (10 page)

“Bye, Harvey.”

Harvey moved off briskly. She watched him until he turned the corner at the end of the block. When he was gone, she went warily on her way, every muscle and nerve tensed in case the sidewalk started to twist and heave beneath her feet again.

To date, she had never had more than one of the hallucinatory nightmares in a twenty-four-hour period, but there was no way to know when that pattern might change. The lawsuit had taken her bank account so low that she could no longer afford flash-rock tune-ups and routine maintenance for her car. But even if she had been able to drive, she would not have dared to get behind the wheel for fear that one of the dreams would strike.

“They’re affecting my quality of life, Vincent,” she said. “I think that’s when you’re supposed to get help. But how can I explain the dreams to a para-shrink? Any decent doctor will assume I’m suffering psychotic episodes and blame it on some kind of psi trauma. Then I’d have to explain that my senses aren’t entirely normal to begin with, and it will be all downhill from there.”

Vincent mumbled encouragingly.

“Thanks, pal. I knew you’d understand.”

Two blocks later she halted in front of the Hole in the Wall, a small restaurant that occupied the ground floor of the building that housed the Harmonic Meditation Institute. She pushed open the door and was greeted with the fragrance of warm muffins and strong coffee.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said.

There was a round of “Hey, there, you made the morning papers,” and “What’s up with you and Sweetwater?” and “You two back together?” from the regulars.

The early crowd in the Hole was a mix of small-time, independent tunnel and jungle treasure hunters and local shopkeepers who catered to the low end of the alien relics trade. They had welcomed Lyra into their midst three years earlier right after she had moved into the neighborhood and fired up Dore Tuning & Consulting.

“For the record, there is nothing between Cruz Sweetwater and me except a little business,” Lyra said firmly. “One of his teams got into trouble at my ruin last night, and he had to come to me to get them out of the trap.”

Someone snorted. “Hope you made Amber Inc. pay big-time.”

“I intend to,” Lyra said.

“The papers implied that you and Cruz Sweetwater are an item again,” Josie Taylor, the proprietor of Taylor’s Relics, said.

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.” Lyra glanced at her watch and then smiled at the grizzled cook. “I’m on my way upstairs to class. Okay if I leave Vincent down here with you as usual, Adele?”

“You bet.” Adele waved her spatula. “I’ve got a muffin with his name on it.”

Vincent chortled with his customary enthusiasm. After three years, he knew the routine. He fluttered down from Lyra’s shoulder, drifted across the floor, and tumbled up onto one of the vacant stools. Ben Symmington, owner of Symmington’s Colonial Collectibles, was seated on the neighboring stool. He grinned.

“Howdy, little guy,” he said. He patted the top of Vincent’s beret and then looked at Lyra. “You two are running late this morning.”

“We didn’t get back from underground until nearly four,” Lyra explained. She patted away a yawn. “Adele, just put Vincent’s muffin on my tab. See you in an hour.”

“I’ll have your coffee ready,” Adele promised.

Lyra smiled. “Now, Addy, you know I’m not supposed to drink coffee after my meditation class. Master Quinn says that caffeine is bad for the senses.”

Adele made a face. “It’s what keeps mine working.”

“Mine, too,” Lyra admitted. “Later, all.”

She went out the front door, turned right, and entered the main lobby of the building. A flight of stairs led to the floor where the Institute’s headquarters was located. When she walked through the door of the studio a short time later, she saw immediately that she was the last one to arrive. The other fourteen students, already seated cross-legged on their mats, turned to look at her with reproachful gazes.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, embarrassed. Students were expected to be on time. Coming into class late was a sign of a lack of harmonic balance.

Master Quinn, seated on a mat at the front of the room, nodded solemnly. His head was shaved, a style that emphasized his ascetic features and deep, insightful eyes. He wore long, flowing amber robes and several strands of amber beads. Lyra thought that he was probably in his late thirties or early forties.

“Welcome, Lyra,” he said in his calm, serene tones.

“Good morning, Master Quinn,” she said.

She gave him a formal, if somewhat perfunctory, bow and then quickly pulled her mat out of the gym bag and sat down.

“Let us begin,” Quinn said. “Breathe deeply. Open your inner window and listen to your senses. Find the harmonic balance within.”

Lyra closed her eyes and concentrated intently on following the instructions. Unfortunately, she had been unable to get the knack of meditating. Sadly, the harder she tried to sink into the tranquil mental state that the other students achieved so easily, the more difficult the process became.

An unpleasant restlessness descended on her in class, making her edgy instead of calm. She found herself consciously trying to suppress the sensation. Master Quinn had urged her to stop fighting the agitation, explaining that the key to harmonic balance was to let go of the illusion of control. But that, she had learned, was easier said than done.

“Pay attention to the whispers of your senses,” Master Quinn intoned. “All the answers are there, within you . . .”

CRUZ CAME AWAKE WITH A JOLT OF ENERGY THAT HAD become all too familiar in recent weeks. His senses slammed into full throttle, leaving him feeling unpleasantly overstimulated; a hunter ready to go for the throat but no target in view.

The sudden blasts of urgency had become more frequent, occurring unpredictably. They were accompanied by fragments of images that he could not make out clearly. He got only a vague impression of towering canyons formed by strangely warped structures and buildings. Along with the glimpses of the nightmarish cityscape came a sense that Lyra was in danger. But the shards of the vision always disappeared as inexplicably as they had come.

The first couple of times he’d had the experience, he’d sent his young cousin Jeff, an agent from AI Security, to check up, very discreetly, on Lyra. He knew she would be furious if she thought he had spied on her during the past three months. But he’d had to be sure that she was all right. Jeff had reported that she was fine and going about her usual routine. He had found no evidence that she was in any danger. She was not even dating. She had appeared fully preoccupied with her work as a tuner and her lawsuit against Amber Inc.

Cruz had taken a few crumbs of comfort from the knowledge that she wasn’t seeing another man.

After a few more of the disturbing episodes, he had, for a time, questioned his own psychic mental health. He’d done some research. He and his two brothers were the latest in a long line of unusual talents. For generations, those abilities had brought the family considerable wealth.

But the inheritance had a very dark side. The family talents were strong, but his very pragmatic ancestors had concluded that there was only one truly profitable application for those unique abilities. The result was that for several hundred years his ancestors had made their livings in ways that did not always look good in the light of day. There was no getting around the fact that the family tree was populated with a lot of professional assassins, hit men, contract killers, and mercenaries.

True, Sweetwaters had always taken pride in taking contracts from what they believed to be the right side. They considered themselves the good guys. But when you hunted and killed for money, what did that make you? And what did it do to the individual psyches of the members of a family that had engaged in such a business for a few hundred years, ever since the late 1880s, Old Earth time?

But those days were over, he reminded himself. Mostly. Fifty years ago his grandfather had put an end to what had been the family business for generations. Big Jake Sweetwater had set the clan on a new course. More or less.

Of course, some things never changed.

In the end, however, he had concluded that the disturbing dreams were simply a result of the psychic bond he shared with Lyra. The hunter in him was prowling his unconscious mind, frustrated because he had not been able to claim his mate.

Soon,
he thought.
Not much longer.

The phone rezzed. He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked at the number on the tiny screen. Speak of the devil. A call from his grandfather was never a great way to start a day. He picked up the phone.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Did you have to use Lyra Dore to get that team out last night?” Jake Sweetwater growled.

The lack of a “Good morning” or “Did I wake you?” was classic Big Jake Sweetwater style. He had little patience for the routine pleasantries unless it suited him to use them for some reason of his own. On those occasions when he did resort to politeness or diplomacy, smart people headed for the door. Affability was a sure indication that Jake was up to no good. The only person who could exercise some measure of control over him was his wife, Madeline.

“No one we’ve got on staff could de-rez that chamber entrance,” Cruz said patiently.

“Yeah, the papers made that damn clear. The press is having a field day with this. For the past three months Lyra Dore has tried to make the company look bad in the media. She portrayed AI as a big, bad specter-cat that likes to gobble up innocent little independent prospectors for lunch. Now she shows us up as complete idiots because we had to call her in to open the ruin.”

“That is one possible interpretation.”

“It’s sure as hell the interpretation that’s all over the news. And what’s this about the two of you being involved in a romantic relationship? Where did the reporters get that idea?”

“You know the press,” Cruz said. “Always looking for an angle.”

“How much did you pay Lyra Dore for de-rezzing the chamber, anyway?”

“We haven’t discussed the matter of her fee yet. There wasn’t time last night. She agreed to help as soon as I told her that there were five people trapped inside the chamber. After that, things got busy.”

“Hah. She’s a Dore. She’ll find some way to turn this to her advantage. Probably hold us up for a fortune, and we’ll have to pay, because if we don’t, AI will look like the evil corporate empire she wants everyone to believe it is.”

“I’ll let you know the price tag. By the way, there’s something you might want to consider here, sir.”

“What’s that?” Jake demanded.

“We still need her expertise in the lab. Nothing has changed since last night. Webber hasn’t been able to find anyone else who can tune amethyst, let alone rez those relics.”

“Damn.” Jake was silent for a moment. “Well, hell, maybe those stones are just pretty little alien sculptures after all, like Lyra Dore claimed.”

“Got a hunch that the ones that we found in the ruin may be nothing more than attractive works of art,” Cruz agreed.

There was a short silence while Jake digested that. “You think she held out on us? Stashed some of the stones?”

“What would you have done if you had been in her situation with a big company moving in to take over your discovery?”

Jake snorted. “Hell, I’d have picked out some of the most important pieces and tucked them away someplace safe where I was sure no one would ever find them. Then I’d bide my time until the heat died down and move them on the underground collectors’ market.”

“That same thought crossed my mind, too.”

“Green hell. Should have figured she’d try something like that. She’s a Dore. Chip of amber straight off the old block. If she’d had a lick of common sense, she would have taken the cash we offered. That’s what any reasonable person would have done.”

“I don’t think Lyra was feeling reasonable three months ago when we moved in on the ruin.”

“What caused the chamber entrance to close?” Jake asked.

“We don’t know. Lyra said it was probably some stray currents from a nearby psi river or storm. The only other possibility, according to her, is that someone deliberately closed the entrance by working silver, diamond, or amethyst amber.”

“You said there was no indication of any rivers or storms in the area.”

“Right.”

“Well, we know we don’t have anyone on staff who can work amethyst. If we did, you wouldn’t have had to pull in Lyra Dore.” Jake paused. “Anyone on that team who could work silver or diamond?”

“No. After I got back to the surface I checked the parapsych profiles of everyone involved last night. I looked at the files of the two Guild men, as well. None of them could rez any of those three varieties of rock. And even if it did turn out that one of them had kept his or her talent a secret, there’s no obvious motive for trying to murder five people.”