Silver Master (28 page)

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, CELINDA AND DAVIS SAT
on the veranda of the Glenfield Institute. Araminta, perched on the arm of Celinda's chair, was eating a lemon square that Dr. Phillips had given her. There were several more lemon squares arranged on a plate on a nearby table. Max had scampered off to investigate the gardens.

“You say these ruby amber relics might actually be able to counteract the effects of serious psi trauma?” Dr. Phillips studied the one he was holding in his hands.

Araminta had raised no objection when the relic that had been in Hollings's possession had been turned over to Phillips. Celinda was still uncertain how she would react when the second one was handed to him.

“To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how effective they'll be,” Celinda said. “All I know is that I was able to strengthen Davis's psi waves the other night to keep him from sliding into a coma after he pulled ghost silver. I was also able to manipulate the waves of two of the men he fought underground.”

“I told you what Hollings did with that thing when he and I faced off underground,” Davis said.

“A double-edged sword,” Phillips said quietly. “Historically that has often been the case with many of the most significant advances in medicine. Antibiotics and drugs, surgical procedures, instruments, machines, and all the rest. They must be treated with the utmost respect because they can kill or cure.”

“Which is why we're giving you the relics,” Celinda said. “I'll do what I can to help you research the appropriate uses of the devices, but I think in the long run you'll be better off if you can find some people in the medical profession who possess my kind of psi talent.”

Phillips continued to examine the relic. “We will begin a search immediately. I can't tell you how excited I am by the possibilities. We have had so few effective treatments for psi trauma. Ultimately, as in Davis's case, it generally comes down to whether or not the patient has the psychic strength to fight his or her way back to recovery. Sadly, too many don't make it. These relics offer great hope.”

“Here goes,” Celinda said.

She reached into the tote and removed the relic that Araminta had insisted she purchase. Araminta went very still and alert on the arm of the chair, watching intently.

Celinda put the relic down and picked her up. She held her in both hands and looked straight into her baby-blue eyes. “I know you don't understand what I'm saying, but I'm hoping you can sense that I really want Dr. Phillips to have the relic. It's very important to me, Araminta. He's a good man, a fine doctor. He'll put this thing to good use. Okay?”

Araminta blinked a couple of times. Celinda put her back down on the arm of the chair. Then she picked up the relic and handed it slowly to Dr. Phillips.

Araminta followed the action with close attention. Then she gave what was evidently the equivalent of a dust bunny shrug and scampered up onto the table to help herself to a third lemon square.

“There you have it,” Davis said. “Another great moment in medical history made possible by a dust bunny and a plate of lemon squares.”

Ten Days Later…

“ANOTHER WEEK, ANOTHER WEDDING,” DAVIS GROWLED.

“What do you expect?” Celinda laughed. “It's the season. Besides, you shouldn't complain. You look terrific in a tux.”

They stood together with the other guests and watched the bride and groom take the floor for their first waltz as a married couple. The new Mrs. Boone looked spectacular in an old-fashioned wedding gown and a veil that fell all the way to her heels. Her husband, Cooper Boone, looked every inch the powerful Guild boss that he was in his formal uniform adorned with the insignia of his position as head of the Aurora City Guild.

The ballroom was filled with high-ranking Guild men and Guild families from all four city-states and a lot of the small towns in between. Everything about the wedding had been old-style Guild traditional, right down to and including the quartz-green and amber-yellow floral arrangements and the towering wedding cake trimmed with amber and green roses. Green champagne flowed freely from a half-dozen fountains scattered around the brilliantly lit chamber.

Elly and Cooper Boone circled the floor, clearly lost in each other.

A perfect match, Celinda thought. She dabbed her eyes. Other couples were taking the floor now, including Lydia and Emmett and Tamara and Mercer Wyatt.

“You just met Cooper and Elly today,” Davis said, amused. “You hardly know them. Why the heck are you crying?”

“I can't help it.” She blinked away the tears. “I'm a matchmaker. It goes with the territory.”

“Are you going to cry at our wedding?” he asked with grave interest.

She sniffed and tossed the tissue into a nearby container. “No, of course not. Brides never cry at their own weddings. They're too busy making sure everything is under control.”

“Good.” He caught her hand, gripping it tightly. “I wouldn't want anyone to think you were having regrets at the last minute.”

“Never.” Satisfaction welled up inside. “You're Mr. Perfect, the man I've been waiting for all of my life.”

He laughed and drew her out onto the dance floor. “I'm a long way from perfect,” he said, taking her into his arms. “But what I feel for you is absolutely perfect. I love you, Celinda.”

She glowed in the sweet certainty of his love.

“I love you, Davis,” she whispered.

 

A SMALL GROUP OF UNINVITED WEDDING GUESTS SUR
veyed the happy scene from the cover of a buffet table draped with amber and green. Each was dressed for the occasion. Fuzz wore an amber-yellow ribbon. The bride's special pal, Rose, glittered in a sparkling bracelet draped around her neck. Max and Araminta were adorned with gleaming paper clips that secured little tufts of fur on top of their heads in a rakish fashion.

From the perspective of a bunch of hungry dust bunnies, the glorious wedding cake loomed a mile high, and the champagne fountains flowed like rivers.

If the humans would rather dance than eat, that was their problem. Dust bunnies knew what to do with a fully loaded buffet table.

…BURN, WITCH, BURN…

The voice was a dark, ghostly whisper in her head. Raine Tallentyre stopped at the top of the basement stairs. Gingerly she touched the banister with her fingertips. That was all the contact she needed. The voice, thick with bloodlust and an unholy excitement, murmured again.

…Only one way to kill a witch. Punish her. Make her suffer. Burn, witch, burn…

It was the same voice she had heard when she had brushed against the counter in the kitchen a few minutes ago. It whispered of darkness, fear, and fire. The psychic traces were very fresh. A deeply disturbed individual had come through this house in the recent past. She could only pray that the freak was the type who limited himself to twisted fantasies played out in his head. But she'd had enough experience to know that probably wasn't the case. This bastard was the real thing: a human monster.

She shuddered, snatched her hand off the banister, and wiped her palm against her raincoat. The gesture was pure instinct, a reflex. The coat, long and black, was wet because it was pouring outside, but no amount of water could wash away the memory of the foul energy she had just sensed.

She looked back at Doug Spicer and heard another voice, her aunt's this time. The warning came straight out of her teenage memories.
Never tell them about the whispers in your head, Raine. They'll say you're crazy, like me
.

“I just want to take a quick look around the basement,” she said, dreading what lay ahead.

Doug peered uneasily down into the darkness at the foot of the stairs. “Do you really think that's necessary, Miss Tallentyre? There will probably be mice or maybe even rats or snakes. Don't worry, I can take the listing without a thorough examination of the basement.”

Doug was the proprietor of Spicer Properties, one of three real estate companies in the small town of Shelbyville, Washington. She had contacted him when she had arrived that morning because he was the only agent who had bothered to get in touch with her after learning of Vella Tallentyre's death. He had inquired delicately about taking the listing. She was more than happy to give it to him. It was not as if she had been besieged by enthusiastic agents. For his part, Doug was relatively new in town and struggling to establish his business. They needed each other.

Dressed in a crisply tailored dark gray suit and pale blue tie, with a handsome brown leather briefcase in one hand, Doug looked every inch the professional real estate agent. Sleek, designer glasses framed his pale eyes. His car, parked in the drive, was a Jaguar.

She guessed him to be in his late thirties. His hairline was starting to recede and he had the solid, well-fed look of a man who, while not yet overweight, had definitely started to put on extra pounds. He had warned her that the gloom-filled house, with its aging plumbing and wiring, would not be an easy sale.

“I'll be right back,” she assured him.

She couldn't tell him that she really had no choice now that she had picked up the psychic whispers of a man who fantasized about killing witches. She had to know the truth before she could leave the house.

“I did a little research and called Phil Brooks after I spoke with you,” Doug said. “He told me that your aunt cut off his pest control service shortly before she, uh, left town.”

Shortly before I took her away,
Raine thought. She curled the hand that had just touched the railing very tightly around the strap of her purse.
Shortly before I had to put her into a very private, very expensive sanitarium.

A month ago Vella Tallentyre had died in her small room at St. Damian's Psychiatric Hospital back in Oriana on the shores of Lake Washington. The cause of death was a heart attack, according to the authorities. She had been fifty-nine years old.

It dawned on her that Doug probably didn't want to get his pristine suit and polished shoes dirty. She didn't blame him.

“You don't have to come with me,” she said. “I'll just go to the foot of the stairs.”

Please be a gentleman and insist on coming with me
.

“Well, if you're sure,” Doug said, stepping back. “I don't see a light switch up here.”

“It's at the foot of the stairs.”

So much for the gentlemen's code. What had she expected? This wasn't the nineteenth century. The code, if it ever had existed, no longer applied. After what she had just been through with Bradley, she should know that better than anyone.

The thought of Detective Bradley Mitchell proved bracing. The ensuing rush of feminine outrage unleashed a useful dose of adrenaline that was strong enough to propel her down the stairs.

Doug hovered at the top of the steps, filling the doorway. “If the light isn't working, I've got a flashlight in my car.”

The ever helpful real estate agent.

She ignored him and descended cautiously into the darkness. Maybe she wouldn't give him the listing, after all. The problem was, neither of the other two agents in town was eager for it. It wasn't just that the house was in such a neglected state. The truth was that it was unlikely any of the locals would be interested in purchasing it.

For the past few decades this house had been the property of a woman who had been certifiably crazy; a woman who heard voices in her head. That kind of history tended to dampen the enthusiasm of prospective clients. As Doug had explained, they would have to lure an out-of-town prospect; someone interested in a real fixer-upper.

The old wooden steps creaked and groaned. She tried to avoid touching the railing on the way down and she was careful to stay close to the edge of each tread so that she would be less likely to step in
his
footsteps. She had learned the hard way that human psychic energy was most easily transmitted onto a surface by direct skin contact, but bloodlust this strong sometimes penetrated through the soles of shoes.

As careful as she tried to be, she couldn't avoid all of it.

Make her suffer. Punish her the way Mother punished me.

The scent of damp and mildew intensified as she went down. The darkness at the foot of the steps yawned like a bottomless well.

She paused on the final step, groped for and found the switch. When she touched it, she got a jolt that had nothing to do with electricity.
Burn, witch, burn.

Mercifully, the naked bulb in the overhead fixture still worked, illuminating the windowless, low-ceilinged space in a weak, yellow glare.

The basement was crammed with the detritus of Vella Tallentyre's unhappy life. Several pieces of discarded furniture, including a massive, mirrored armoire, a chrome dining table laminated with red plastic, and four matching red vinyl chairs were crowded together. Most of the rest of the space was filled with several large cardboard boxes and crates. They contained many of the innumerable paintings that Vella had produced over the years. The pictures had one unifying theme: they were all dark, disturbing images of masks.

Her heart sank. So much for taking a quick look around and retreating back up the staircase. She would have to leave her perch at the foot of the stairs and tour the maze of boxes and crates if she wanted to be certain that there were no terrible secrets buried down here.

She really did not need this. She had problems enough at the moment. Settling Aunt Vella's small estate had proved remarkably time-consuming, not to mention depressing. In the middle of that sad process she had been forced to face the fact that the one man she thought could accept her, voices and all, found her a complete turn-off in the bedroom. On top of everything else, she had a business to run. Late October was a busy time of year for her costume design shop, Incognito. No, she did not need any more trouble, but she knew all too well that if she ignored the whispers, she would walk the floor until dawn for days or even weeks. For some reason she could never understand, finding the truth was the only antidote for the voices.

Stomach clenching, she stepped down onto the concrete floor and put out a hand to touch the nearest object, a dusty cardboard box. There was no help for it now. She had to follow the trail of psychic whispers left by the freak.

“What are you doing?” Doug called anxiously from the top of the staircase. “I thought you said you were just going to have a quick look around down there.”

“There's a lot of stuff here. Sooner or later I'm going to have to clear it out. I need to get an idea of how big a job it will be.”

“Please be careful, Miss Tallentyre.”

She pretended not to hear him. If he couldn't be bothered to accompany her into the darkness, she was not interested in his platitudes.

There was nothing on the cardboard box but when her fingertips skated across the laminated surface of the old table she got another vicious jolt.

The demon is stronger than the witch.

Gasping, she jerked her fingers away from the table and took a quick step back. No matter how she tried to prepare herself, she would never get used to the unnerving sensation that accompanied a brush with the really bad whispers.

She looked down at the floor, searching for footprints. If there were any, they were undetectable. In the poor light the gray dust that covered everything appeared to be the same color as the concrete. In addition, the deep shadows between the valleys of stacked boxes left much of the surface of the floor in pitch darkness.

She inched forward, touching the objects in her path in the same tentative way she would have tested the surface of a hot stove. Psychic static clinging to the dusty armoire mirror made her flinch.

She looked around and realized that she was following a narrow path that snaked through the jungle of crates and boxes. The trail led to the closed door of the old wooden storage locker. A heavy padlock secured the sturdy door.

A very shiny new padlock.

She knew before she even touched it that it would reek of the freak's spore.

She came to a halt a step away from the locker, held her breath, and put out her hand. The edge of her finger barely grazed the padlock but the shock was nerve-shattering all the same.

Burn, witch, burn
.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, damn.”

“Miss Tallentyre?” Doug sounded genuinely alarmed now. “What's wrong? Are you all right down there?”

She heard his footsteps on the stairs. Evidently her small yelp of pained surprise had activated some latent manly impulse to ride to the rescue. Better late than never.

“I'm all right but there is something very wrong down here.” She fished her cell phone out of her purse. “I'm going to call 911.”

“I don't understand.” Doug halted on the last step, clutching his briefcase. He peered around and finally spotted her near the storage locker. “Why in the world do you want the police?”

“Because I think this basement is about to become a crime scene.”

The 911 operator came on the line before Doug could recover from the shock.

“Fire or police?” the woman said crisply.

“Police,” she responded, putting all the assurance she could muster into her voice in an effort to make certain the operator took her seriously. “I'm at fourteen Crescent Lane, the Tallentyre house. Tell whoever responds to bring a tool that can cut through a padlock. Hurry.”

The woman refused to be rushed. “What's wrong, ma'am?”

“I just found a dead body.”

She hung up before the operator could ask any more questions. When she closed the phone she realized that Doug was still standing at the foot of the stairs. His features were partially obscured by the shadows but she was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. The poor man was obviously starting to realize that there were reasons why the other local real estate agents hadn't jumped on the Tallentyre listing. He must have heard the rumors about Aunt Vella. Maybe he was starting to wonder if the crazy streak ran in the family. It was a legitimate question.

Doug cleared his throat. “Are you sure you're okay, Miss Tallentyre?”

She gave him the smile she saved for situations like this, the special smile her assistant, Pandora, had labeled her
screw you
smile.

“No, but what else is new?” she said politely.

 

THE OFFICER'S NAME WAS BOB FULTON. HE WAS THE HARD
-faced, no-nonsense, ex-military type. He came down the basement stairs with a large flashlight and a wicked looking bolt cutter.

“Where's the body?” he asked, in a voice that said he had seen a number of them.

“I'm not certain there is one,” Raine admitted. “But I think you'd better check that storage locker.”

He looked at her with an expression she recognized immediately. It was the everyone-here-is-a-suspect-until-proven-otherwise expression that Bradley got when he was working a case.

“Who are you?” Fulton asked.

“Raine Tallentyre.”

“Related to the crazy lady, uh, I mean to Vella Tallentyre?”

“Her niece.”

“Mind if I ask what you're doing here today?”

“I inherited this house,” she said coldly. He'd called Aunt Vella a crazy lady out loud. That meant she no longer had to be polite.

Clearly sensing the mounting tension in the atmosphere, Doug stepped forward. “Doug Spicer, Officer. Spicer Properties. I don't believe we've met. I came here with Miss Tallentyre today to take a listing on the place.”

Fulton nodded. “Heard Vella Tallentyre had passed on. Sorry, ma'am.”

“Thank you,” Raine said stiffly. “About that storage locker…”

He studied the padlocked door and then glanced suspiciously at Raine. “What makes you think there's a body in there?”

She crossed her arms and went into full defense mode. She had known this was going to be difficult. It was so much simpler when Bradley handled this part, shielding her from derision and disbelief.