“Uh, Mr. Chastain?”
He was vaguely aware that Hobart Batt was staring at him with renewed alarm, but he could not deal with him now. He was standing at a metaphysical cross-roads that he did not comprehend. Maybe this was it. Maybe he had gone over the edge. Maybe he was having psychic hallucinations.
Anguish and rage roared through him. He would not lose control of his mind. Death was preferable to insanity. He had made that decision long ago.
Five hells. He had been so certain that he could control his psychic powers. But maybe that’s what all matrix-talents told themselves just before they went off the deep end.
Maybe his father really had committed suicide in that damned jungle thirty-five years ago.
“Mr. Chastain?” Hobart blinked several times. “Is something wrong?”
With an effort of will, Nick unclenched his fist. He would not let the madness show. He could control that much, at least.
“No. There’s nothing wrong,” he said between clenched teeth.
He would not go out like this, Nick vowed. He would not let anyone see him lose it. He might be plunging headfirst into chaos, but damned if he would let it show.
But how could chaos be so beautiful? So entrancing? So perfect?
Out on the metaphysical plane, the prism started to disappear. Whoever had created it was dissolving it as quickly as possible.
“No,” Nick whispered. “No.”
Another kind of terror seized him. As much as he feared the mental ward, he feared even more the prospect of losing the incredible prism.
Against all reason he made a mental grab for the glittering psychic construct. Fumbling wildly, he tried to imprison it with his own talent. The experts said it could not be done. It was only in novels that powerful talents could become psychic-vampires capable of holding a prism captive. But in that moment Nick was willing to try anything to hold on to this amazing creation.
He exerted every ounce of will and psychic energy he possessed. Power flooded the psychic plane in rippling waves of energy, surrounding the prism.
He had it.
The prism no longer continued to fade. Nick secured it with manacles of raw energy. It was his. He could not believe his prize. Awe swept through him.
“Mr. Chastain?” Hobart blinked several times and got to his feet. “Mr. Chastain, are you all right?”
Nick ignored the interruption. He was fully occupied holding on to his precious captive. The prism suddenly glittered with a furious energy, as if the person who had crafted it had realized the peril. But it did not vanish. It could not vanish. He held it fast in psychic chains.
He poured talent through the crystal construct, exulting in the rush of raw power. He had never been able to use his talent at full strength this way. It felt incredibly good, incredibly satisfying.
He could go on like this all night, not using his talent for any particular purpose, simply enjoying the process of exercising it. His fears of impending insanity vanished. This link felt right.
Without warning the focus shifted ever so slightly. The facets of the prism twisted and realigned themselves. The energy waves that Nick was forcing through it were suddenly skewed.
Psychic pain crashed through him. He realized that the woman who had created the prism had to be in similar agony.
What in the name of the five hells was he doing? Rational thought finally cut through the whirlpool of sexual and psychic hunger.
He was no vampire.
He forced himself to cut off the flow of talent. The prism winked out of existence.
The reality of the physical plane settled around him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Chastain.” Hobart was halfway to the door. “I’ll fetch help.”
“Sit down.” Nick closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.
“You’re having an attack of some sort. I really think I should call someone.”
Nick narrowed his gaze. “Sit. Down.”
Hobart’s hands trembled. He made his way slowly back to his chair and sat down.
“There’s nothing wrong.” Nick pulled himself together and glanced surreptitiously around the chamber.
Everything appeared to be normal. He certainly did not feel crazy. He wondered if these things started with brief flashes of madness and slowly grew worse over time.
No, damn it, he was not going insane. He felt fine. Never better, in fact, if he discounted the lingering ache of sexual desire. His memory was perfectly clear. His brain was sharp. He could summon his matrix-honed powers of logic and reason and self-control without effort.
No problem.
He analyzed the situation quickly. Obviously his psychic probe had accidentally brushed up against a very, very powerful prism. Whoever she was, she was so strong that she could link with him even though she was not in the immediate vicinity.
Furthermore, she was an extremely rare type of prism, one that could tune itself perfectly to matrix energy waves.
She had to be somewhere nearby, Nick thought. Right here inside the casino. No prism could be strong enough to reach him from the street outside.
Nick shoved his fingers through his hair and forced himself to analyze the logic of the matrix. They weren’t supposed to exist, but he knew for a fact that there were a few off-the-scale talents. He was one of them. He also knew that there were some prisms whose powers went beyond full-spectrum, even though the experts denied it. A few months ago his friend Lucas Trent, a super-powerful illusion-talent, had found himself just such a prism named Amaryllis Lark.
Tonight, Nick knew, he had discovered another. He had to find her.
The casino security system was first-class, he reminded himself. One of the cameras would have caught the mysterious prism when she entered the building. The thought that he had her face on tape brought a wave of relief.
One way or another he would discover her identity.
Things were under control.
In the meantime, he had to deal with the business of getting himself married. Nick clamped down the iron restraints of his willpower and looked at Hobart.
“Mr. Batt, you force me to tell you some details of my situation that I would have preferred to keep confidential.”
Hobart looked more nervous than ever. “Details?”
“You have asked me why I don’t simply go down-town to the offices of Synergistic Connections and register like other people. There are some reasons why it would not do me any good to go the normal route.”
“I see.” Hobart coughed slightly. “What reasons would those be, Mr. Chastain?”
Nick smiled humorlessly. “For starters, you may have noticed that I own and operate a casino. How many of New Seattle’s fine, upstanding families would want one of their daughters to marry a man in my profession?”
Hobart flushed. “I admit your, uh, choice of occupation would not be acceptable in some circles. But, uh, unless you intend to confine your search for a bride to the daughters of the most socially prominent families—”
“I do, Mr. Chastain. I most certainly do intend to marry a woman from one of New Seattle’s most elite families.”
“Oh, my.”
“I have a few other small problems, Mr. Batt. I trust you will view them as challenges.”
Hobart closed his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Chastain?”
“I’m an untested, unclassified talent,” Nick said gently.
Hobart did not open his eyes. “Would you consider getting yourself rated?”
“No.”
Hobart groaned and opened his eyes. “Synergistic Connections only handles classified talents and prisms. Psychic-power-level compatibility between two people is just as important to a successful marriage as other types of compatibility.”
“You’ll have to work without a rating for me.”
Hobart’s hand fluttered. “But it will be extremely difficult to find anyone who will marry an untested talent.” He brightened. “Unless, of course, you know for certain that you possess only a minimal
amount of power.”
“I’m afraid I’m not a weak talent.”
“I see.” Hobart gripped the arms of his chair. A hunted expression appeared in his eyes. “Precisely what sort of talent do you possess, Mr. Chastain?”
“I’m a matrix.”
Hobart collapsed in despair. “A powerful, untested matrix-talent who wishes to marry into prominent circles. Impossible. It can’t be done. No offense, sir, but no one in the better social classes will want you in the family.”
“I find that money can often smooth the way in those circles just as it does at every other social level.” Nick paused. “I have a great deal of money, Batt.”
Hobart licked dry lips. “You said there were other problems?”
“Challenges, Hobart. Not problems. A marriage counselor must think positive. The last of the challenges I expect you to overcome is that I’m a bastard.”
“I’m well aware of that—” Hobart broke off abruptly. He turned an unpleasant shade of pink. “I see. You meant it literally?”
“Yes. My parents were never married. My father was a Chastain. He died before I was born. I’m related by blood to the Chastains of Chastain, Inc. here in New Seattle but they like to pretend that I don’t exist. I have no respectable family connections at all.”
“Good grief.”
There was no need to say anything more on the subject, Nick thought. They both knew that the stigma of being a bastard was a serious handicap for anyone searching for a spouse from a decent family at any level of society. It was a nearly insurmountable obstacle for a man who hoped to marry into the highest circles.
But being a bastard was also highly motivating, Nick thought grimly. No one could appreciate the value of respectability as much as someone who did not have it. He was determined that his future children would never face the subtle as well as not so subtle barriers that society placed in the way of those who could not claim a respectable family lineage. His offspring would have all the advantages he could give them and those advantages started with a suitable marriage.
Nick smiled faintly. “You see why I require your professional expertise, Mr. Batt.”
“What you ask of me is impossible, Mr. Chastain. How can I possibly find you a nice young woman from one of the better families?”
“I’m sure you’ll manage. I have complete confidence in you and my money.”
“You think you can buy your way into high society?” Hobart sputtered.
“Yes, that is exactly what I think. It will no doubt cheer you to know that I don’t plan to occupy my present low-class niche for long. I have a plan, you see. I won’t go into all of the details, but, trust me, within five years I will be so damned respectable that it will take your breath away.”
“A plan,” Hobart repeated cautiously.
“Yes. And you, Hobart, have a very important role to play in my plan.”
Chapter
2
* * * * * * * * * *
Zinnia Spring leaned heavily against the door marked LADIES and staggered into the women’s room. One glance told her that the facility was as tasteless and garish as the rest of the casino. This particular room had apparently been designed to resemble some man’s fantasy notion of the boudoir of an expensive but extremely tacky mistress.
A row of gilded stall doors saluted her. Inside the cubicles she could see pink and white marble commodes. On one side of a mirrored wall, fluted gold sinks and faucets in the shape of exotic birds were set in pink and white marble counters. A thick fuchsia carpet covered the floor of the sitting area which was dominated by a gilded pink velvet sofa.
It was enough to make any self-respecting interior designer wince in horror, Zinnia thought. But she was feeling too traumatized at that moment to waste too much energy condemning the decor.
She was relieved to see that she had the restroom to herself.
Her head was still throbbing from the paranormal assault she had just undergone. Her pulse raced. She could feel the back of her blouse sticking to her perspiration-dampened skin. But at least she was no longer focus-linked to the bastard, whoever he was.
She was still not certain whether he had deliberately released her or if she had managed to break free on her own when she had tried to skew the focus. Everything had been so chaotic during those few seconds of contact that she could not recall them in a coherent fashion.
She gripped the edge of one of the fluted gold sinks and studied herself in the mirror. Aside from the residue of panic in her eyes, she looked amazingly normal. She felt as if she had been caught in a hurricane, but her hair wasn’t even mussed. Her trademark flame-red suit still looked crisp and professional. The scarf around her throat was as stylishly knotted as it had been before she arrived at the casino.
She closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths. Whoever he was, he was powerful. Definitely a matrix. She could recognize one anywhere.
But matrix-talents were not supposed to be that strong. She ought to know. She was something of an expert on the subject. The ones she had encountered in the course of her part-time job at Psynergy, Inc. had all been under class-five in her estimation. This man had been off-the-charts.
And it most definitely had been a man. She shuddered again at the memory of the intense masculinity that had accompanied the focus link. The sensation of sexual intimacy had been unnerving. She had never experienced such an overwhelming rush of physical excitement during a mind link. Or in any other situation, for that matter, she thought grimly.
Lately, she had secretly begun to question whether or not she was capable of strong sexual desires.
Well, at least that issue had been put to rest, she thought. She was, indeed, capable of passion. But this was not quite what she had in mind when she read one of Orchid Adams’s psychic vampire novels late at night.
This was impossible. Powerful matrix-talents were said to be as rare as First Generation relics. In other words, the experts doubted that any even existed.
Zinnia opened her eyes. She reached for one of the little paper cups stacked in a gold dispenser and turned on the gilded water faucet.
The cup trembled in her fingers as she took a long swallow. At least her head had finally stopped whirling. Her heartbeat was slowing to something close to normal. The disturbing sense of sexual excitement was fading. As far as she could tell there had been no permanent damage done.
She frowned. The psychic agony she had experienced had only occurred when she had struggled to free her mind from the link. She hoped her assailant had suffered some during the process, too. Served him right.
No sense trying to rationalize the situation, she thought. There was only one explanation for what had just happened to her.
She had been jumped by a genuine psychic vampire.
As far as most people were concerned, there were no such things as psychic vampires. They were supposed to exist only in novels and legend.
A few months ago, however, everyone who worked for Psynergy, Inc. had learned of Amaryllis Lark’s frightening experience with a real-life psychic vampire. Clementine Malone, the owner of the agency, had made certain that all her employees were warned that vampires were out there even though the experts scoffed at the notion. The information had been kept from the media for the very simple reason that no one would have believed the tale.
The one person who could have proven the existence of psychic vampires was presently locked up in a hospital for the criminally insane. Irene Dunley, a staid middle-aged secretary, had gone crazy when her ferocious power was extinguished during a savage confrontation between herself, Amaryllis, and Lucas Trent.
Zinnia studied her reflection as she took another sip of water. She felt much better now. Almost normal.
Maybe she was overreacting. She was very tense tonight because of the Morris Fenwick situation. Perhaps her imagination had run amok during those seconds of psychic disorientation.
It was comforting to think that she had accidentally brushed up against a clas
s-five or lower matrix-talent who had been surreptitiously attempting to use his paranormal power to cheat at cards. Casinos routinely employed detector-talents to ensure that customers didn’t use psychic tricks to defraud the house, but someone could have slipped past security.
She sighed. There was no point trying to deceive herself. She had not simply tripped against a mid-level matrix, she had stumbled over an off-the-chart matrix vampire. Her prism talent was very unusual in that she could only work well with matrix-talents, but she was definitely full-spectrum in terms of raw power. She was able to estimate the level of a talent all the way to class-ten. And beyond, apparently, she thought ruefully, because whoever this guy was, he had been much higher than a ten.
It must have been one of the men at the gin-poker table. She had walked very close to the feverish crowd of gamblers gathered there. She had heard that the game was played for high stakes here at Chastain’s Palace. Some very desperate, very powerful matrix-talent had no doubt tried to use his power to cheat. It had been her bad luck to be in the vicinity when the psychic probe struck.
He had probably been just as astounded as herself by the contact, but that had not stopped him from trying to grab the prism she had created.
Everyone knew that matrix-talents were a little weird at the weak end of the spectrum. Apparently they were very dangerous at the high end.
She would stay clear of the gin-poker table when she left the restroom. It was a synergistic fact that the strength of any focus link diminished swiftly with even a few feet of distance between talent and prism.
Zinnia considered the situation. There was nothing she could do about what had just happened. She had no proof that she had been attacked by a psychic vampire. The casino security would laugh if she tried to explain. The only people who would believe her were her friends at Psynergy, Inc.
She finished the water and tossed the cup aside. Casino security personnel would scorn her tale of psychic vampirism, but she had a hunch Nick Chastain’s thugs would be interested to know that a powerful talent was trying to manipulate the gin-poker game.
Zinnia Page 2