“Scenes of violence.”
“A very limited talent,” Jonas pointed out dryly. “I’m sure as hell no psychic. And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from implying otherwise to Elyssa and her friends.”
Verity grinned. “I don’t know, Jonas. There might be more money in this consulting business if we let people know that you have a genuine talent.”
“Not a chance. Normal, rational people wouldn’t believe in my abilities and they damn well wouldn’t want to pay for my services. Only eccentric weirdos would be willing to pay the consulting fees of someone claiming to have a psychic talent. Doug Warwick hired me as a Renaissance scholar, not a New Age nut.”
“And instead he’s getting both,” Verity murmured happily. Jonas scowled. “There’s nothing New Age about me or my talent.”
“I know,” Verity agreed readily. Her momentary amusement faded. “There are a lot of things about you that aren’t even twentieth-century. Sometimes I think you would have done very well back in the Renaissance, Jonas.”
He moved across the room with that peculiar, gliding grace that came so naturally to him, and tipped up her chin with one hard finger. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“They had ways of handling troublesome females back then.”
“Is that right?” She grinned. “You’ll have to demonstrate sometime. Meanwhile, we’d better get dressed for dinner.” She moved away from him. “I hope you packed that nice sweater I gave you for Christmas.”
“You know it’s packed. You put it in my bag yourself.”
“So I did.”
“Very wifely of you to remember my sweater,” he observed softly.
Verity flinched and began to unpack busily. “Packing your sweater wasn’t a wifely act. It was the act of a shrewd business manager who wants you properly dressed for the client.”
“I see.” He watched her closely for a long moment, then silently started to undress.
Elyssa and Doug were waiting for them downstairs in a grand salon that ran most of the length of the old villa’s south wing. Most of the room was in shadow, the old furniture covered in sheets. Only a small section at the far end of the salon, near the deep fireplace, had been made reasonably comfortable. Several people were seated on the worn furniture, chatting quietly. A fire blazed on the old hearth.
“Come in, we’ve been waiting for you. I want you to meet everyone.” Elyssa swept forward, her jewelry jangling and her long white skirt swirling. She took Jonas’s arm and guided him toward the small group.
Verity made a face behind her lover’s back and limped bravely forward on her own. A young, thin, bearded man wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses rose and came toward her. He had very dark, serious eyes.
“Hello,” he said in a low voice as he took her arm. “I’m Oliver Crump. Let me give you a hand.”
“Thank you.” Verity beamed at him, aware that Jonas had glanced back just in time to catch her dazzling smile. His disapproving look encouraged her to turn up the smile a few more watts. He deserved it for letting himself be swept off by Elyssa. “Verity Ames. I’m Jonas’s business manager.”
“Oliver is a healer,” Elyssa explained brightly. “Aren’t you, Oliver?”
“I work a little with herbs and crystals, that’s about all,” Oliver Crump said quietly. His brows came together in a fierce line as he looked down at Verity’s injured foot. “What did you do to your ankle?”
“Slipped on an icy deck.”
“How many days ago?”
“A couple.” She looked down. “The swelling has started to go down but it’s still sore.”
Crump helped her into a heavy wooden chair with a threadbare green velvet cushion. The thick arms and legs of the chair were ornately carved. Verity leaned back experimentally, wondering how old it was. Late nineteenth century, she guessed—certainly not Renaissance.
“Let me introduce the people with whom I share the paths to enlightenment,” Elyssa said. She stood gripping Jonas’s arm as she waved at the small circle of faces. “Oliver Crump, as I just mentioned, is a psychic healer. And that’s Preston Yarwood over there by the liquor cabinet. Preston is the leader of our little group. He’s a marvelous teacher, so inspirational. He’s been interested in psychic studies for years, long before it became so popular. He studied with Ilhela Yonanda, you know.”
“Is that right?” Verity said, wondering who Ilhela Yonanda was.
“How do you do?” Yarwood spoke from the dark corner near the fireplace, where he was pouring drinks. “Understand your plane was a little late.” He sounded vaguely satisfied about that.
When Yarwood stepped forward to nod at Verity and shake Jonas’s hand, the firelight gleamed on the scalp showing through his thinning hair. He appeared to be in his midforties, a short, dynamic-looking man with a rather florid face and a slight paunch. His gaze was intelligent and observant. He had the serene, blissful smile Verity was coming to think of as the New Age look.
Yarwood wore a tastefully expensive plum-colored sweater. His well-cut wool trousers had pleats, and Verity was willing to bet that his loafers were Italian. There was a heavy gold watch on his wrist, the face of which was solid black. Verity was impressed. Running psychic-development seminars was obviously lucrative, as Doug had remarked.
“What can I get you, Verity?” Yarwood asked politely.
“Fruit juice would be fine.”
“I had a feeling you would drink juice,” Preston murmured softly, as if another prediction had just been verified. “And you, Jonas?”
“Scotch if you’ve got it.” Jonas took the seat next to Elyssa.
“And this,” Elyssa went on smoothly, indicating another young man slouched in a corner of the sofa, “is Slade Spencer. Slade is a new member of our circle, although he’s been studying various paths on his own for years, haven’t you, Slade?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Always on the road to enlightenment.” Slade Spencer concentrated for a moment on packing a fragrant-smelling pipe. His hands appeared to tremble slightly.
The small task accomplished, he stretched out his long, jean-covered legs. Slade seemed to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but Verity couldn’t tell for sure.
He ignored Jonas and smiled slowly at Verity as he reached for a glass on the table beside him. Spencer’s face had a pinched, ascetic look, and his eyes were feverishly bright beneath his dark brows. He was so thin that he appeared almost gaunt. There was a sense of nervous energy about the man, as if some part of him was always in motion or, Verity realized with sudden intuition, always struggling to maintain control.
“I admit I’ve been attracted to the concept of an altered state of consciousness for some time now,” Slade said, enunciating carefully, as if he didn’t quite trust his tongue not to trip him up. “I have this theory that most of us are living in a very unnatural state of consciousness, and that the normal, natural state for human beings is actually what’s usually referred to as an altered state. I see the true natural state as a deeply sensual one. A state in which we use all our senses to learn the true meaning of pleasure and personal satisfaction. What do you think? Are you headed in the same direction, Verity?”
Verity blinked. She realized that Slade Spencer had been hitting the booze rather heavily for the past couple of hours. “Actually, I’m into cooking,” she said. She glanced around the room and saw the blank expressions. “Vegetarian cooking,” she added quickly, hoping that would buy her some credibility.
Oliver Crump, who had been staring into the fire, looked over at her with sudden interest. “We’ll have to compare recipes,” he said with a slight smile.
“Verity runs a gourmet vegetarian cafe in Sequence Springs,” Elyssa said helpfully. “Positively wonderful food, so wholesome. I’ve tried to explain to Maggie that we would all prefer vegetarian food while we’re here at the villa, but I’m afraid
she’s a little set in her ways. I’m not sure what we’ll get for dinner.”
“I believe that cooking,” Slade Spencer intoned as he fixed Verity with a deep, meaningful gaze, “is the most sensual of all the creative arts. Its appeal is fundamental and basic, isn’t it? It provides stimulation to the senses, and satisfies us in ways that are almost sexual. Don’t you agree, Verity?”
“I hadn’t thought of cooking as sexy,” Verity began slowly. Before she could finish the comment there was a loud crack of glass against wood. Verity turned to see Jonas release his glass and give Spencer a cold look.
“If you want to screw a rutabaga, that’s your choice, Spencer. But don’t try anything kinky with Verity’s vegetable stew or oatmeal muffins. Understood?”
There was a titter of nervous laughter from around the room. The warning had certainly not been subtle. Spencer just shrugged, sinking deeper into his chair and concentrating on his drink and his pipe.
Doug Warwick frowned and took control of the conversation. Ice tinkled in his glass as he looked at Jonas. “How do you plan to approach this job, Quarrel?”
Jonas took a sip of scotch. “The first step will be to go through each of the wings and verify age and authenticity. It’s largely a matter of making sure I’m working with the original structure, and not being misled by sections added on at a later date. Digby’s relative might have imported part of a villa and had the rest designed and built to match. It’s not an uncommon practice.”
Doug nodded. “I see. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Jonas picked up his glass. “Once I’ve given the place a thorough walk-through, I’ll get down to details. Fifteenth-and sixteenth-century architects were fairly predictable. Even the uninspired ones were very fond of mathematical symmetry, for example.” He then launched into an impressive discussion of Renaissance laws of perspective and how they had influenced architecture.
Everyone in the room nodded wisely. Verity hid a smile behind her glass. Jonas had not spent all those years on campus for nothing—he could shoot the academic bull with the best of them. From across the room he saw her smile, and laughter danced in his eyes.
The shared joke made her realize something important. Somewhere along the line they had become a couple. They were at the point where they could exchange silent laughter in a room full of people. She shared ties with Jonas that had nothing to do with their psychic connection.
The knowledge warmed her. She took another sip of fruit juice and mentally added another day to the monthly calendar in her mind. There was still no indication that she might only be irregular. This was beginning to look like the real thing. The realization made her feel strange. She was heading inexorably toward a major turning point in her life, one for which she had never prepared herself.
The evening meal was composed mainly of mashed potatoes and carrots. Maggie Frampton had done her best to accommodate the preferences of the Warwicks’ guests, but it was obvious that she was not accustomed to cooking meatless meals.
“A good hamburger never hurt no one,” she muttered as she cleared away the last of the dishes. “What do you folks do for protein?”
Verity found herself seated between Oliver Crump and Slade Spencer during dinner. Slade was rather boring. He was obviously quite drunk, and his conversation consisted of a long monologue on the innate sexuality of the spheres.
Oliver Crump was another matter. He said little, his eyes introspective behind the round frames of his glasses. But when Verity drew him out with a discussion of cooking and medicinal herbs, he proved very knowledgeable.
On the opposite side of the long table Jonas was seated between Preston Yarwood and Elyssa. The two of them kept him occupied all evening. Every time Verity glanced over she was partially blinded by Elyssa’s gleaming rings and exotic bracelets.
Elyssa did not announce her surprise entertainment for the evening until after dinner.
“Now, then,” she said as she led the group back into the salon. “I hope you’re all in the mood for a special treat. Preston has offered to guide us in a psychic-clarity session. We thought it would be a wonderful way to help Jonas begin his search for the treasure.”
Doug groaned. “Sorry, Jonas. I didn’t know they were going to pull this. Feel free to opt out.”
“What the hell’s a psychic-clarity session?” Jonas asked warily.
“A session in which we all try to unite our individual energies into a single force that is capable of lifting all of us onto a higher plane. Once we are on that higher level we can communicate far more clearly and intuitively. It’s very effective for relaxing and opening up the mind. I’m sure you’ll find it helpful.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Jonas said politely.
Verity groaned and poked Jonas in the ribs with the handle of her cane. “This is business, Jonas,” she muttered. “Behave yourself.”
Jonas massaged his ribs and smiled dangerously at her for a second. “I’ll tell you what. You folks go ahead with your session while I have a look around the villa.”
“Oh, you really must join us, Jonas.” Elyssa’s eyes were beseeching. “The sessions are so stimulating. Sometimes I’m able to contact Saranantha. I’m becoming a channeler for her, you know,” she added modestly. “I’ve just started picking up on her recently, but I’m getting better at communicating with her.”
Verity heard Slade Spencer snicker faintly, and she knew that Jonas was having a hard time keeping his mouth shut. It was time for another shot of diplomacy.
“I didn’t know you were a channeler,” Verity said quickly. “Who is Saranantha?”
It was Preston Yarwood who answered the question. He gazed fondly at Elyssa. “Saranantha appears to be a high-ranking temple priestess from a land called Utilan. From what we can tell so far, Utilan may have been a lost colony of Atlantis. Elyssa has only recently established contact, so we still have much to learn.”
Doug waved Jonas toward the hall. “I don’t blame you one bit for wanting out of this nonsense. Go have a look around. We’ll play Elyssa’s little parlor game here while you’re out getting your bearings. Watch your step, and stay in the south wing until tomorrow. I think I mentioned that the other three wings were never wired for electricity. You start wandering around in there and you might never come back out.” Doug laughed.
Jonas nodded and took Verity aside. “You stay with the group,” he said in a low voice. “I want to check out a few things I read about in the diary, and I don’t want any of these turkeys around when I do it.”
Verity was startled. “Is this something that might take you into the time corridor? You can’t risk that alone. You’ll need me.”
“Relax. I’m not stupid. I won’t risk anything like that alone. I just want to look around.”
“Be careful,” she whispered anxiously.
He grinned. “You’re the one who’d better be careful. Getting elevated to a higher plane of consciousness sounds like dangerous business.”
“I don’t believe this,” Verity muttered. “The only person in the whole group who’s actually got some real psychic ability and he’s not interested in participating in a genuine psychic-clarity session. Spoilsport.”
“I played enough psychic games back in the lab of the Department of Paranormal Research at Vincent College,” Jonas said grimly. “I don’t like them.” He dropped a small kiss on Verity’s forehead. “Besides, what makes you think there’s only one person with genuine psychic talent here?”
Verity’s eyes widened. “You think one of the others in there has real talent?”
He rallied her coppery curls with an affectionate hand. “I was talking about you, you little idiot. I don’t make those trips into the time tunnel alone. Have fun. I’ll see you later.”
Verity stared after him for a long moment before she walked slowly back into the salon. It was strange, but she’d never thought
of herself as having any psychic ability. As far as she was concerned, the talent belonged to Jonas. She just sort of helped him control it.
Chapter Five
Jonas walked through the halls of the old villa, flashlight in hand, savoring the freedom of control.
Before he had found Verity he would never have been able to take the risk of immersing himself in this four-hundred-year-old mountain of stone. There would have been a threat lying in wait around every corner. Any Renaissance building of this size was all too likely to be imbued with vibrations of ancient bloodshed and murder. Jonas Quarrel was attuned to suggestions of violence, especially violence that took place during the Renaissance.
It would have been far too easy to accidentally step into a room where a man had died on the point of a stiletto, or to pick up a rusty scrap of metal that had once been part of a sword. Such a mistake could have sent him headlong into the psychic tunnel where violent vignettes from the past replayed themselves endlessly, and where the lethal emotional energy that had infused those deadly scenes sought a path to the future through Jonas.
Jonas studied the stone walls around him as he browsed through the dimly lit second floor of the south wing. Hazelhurst had obviously not wanted to spend much money wiring the place. Jonas didn’t want to think about the quality of the limited electrical work that had been done.
He concentrated for a few minutes. The faint vibrations he picked up here and there were very subdued, just enough to assure him that the place was genuine. He pulled the diary from his pocket as he turned the corner into the east wing. There was no electricity in this section. He switched on the flashlight.
Most of the doors along the passageway were closed. From the amount of dust on the floor Jonas judged that Maggie Frampton had given up on this wing long ago. He doubted if the west and north wings were in any better shape.
Jonas moved through the dingy hall, turned another corner, and found himself in more darkness. Doug Warwick was right. A man could wander around in here for quite a while. According to Digby Hazelhurst’s lousy Latin, the room where he had discovered the crystal was in this passage.
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