All the Colors of Night

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “That will be Mr. Jones,” she said, struggling to untangle herself from North’s arms and the bedding.

  North got to his feet first and tossed her the shirt she had been wearing earlier. She pulled it on and reached for her trousers. North yanked on his pants. He zipped the fly as he went up the steps. She bounded after him.

  “I’ll get it,” she said. “My job, remember?”

  She grabbed the receiver of the old landline phone. “This is Sierra.”

  “The deal is on,” Ambrose Jones said. “Tomorrow night. Make that tonight, given that it’s after two. You’ll have plenty of time to drive back to Seattle during the daytime tomorrow. Exchange will take place using the enhanced security services you and the buyer both requested. It will be handled by me personally. There’s just one catch.”

  Sierra clutched the phone very tightly to her ear. “What?”

  “The buyer insists on testing the artifact,” Jones said. “Says he’ll know if it’s the right one. He made it clear that if he thinks he’s been cheated he will destroy the artifact that your client wants.”

  Sierra looked at North, who was leaning over the librarian’s desk, hands planted on the surface while he listened to the one-sided conversation.

  “The buyer insists on testing the artifact,” she said.

  North smiled his ice-cold smile. His eyes got a little hot.

  “No problem,” he said.

  CHAPTER 38

  The last of the disorienting fog evaporated half an hour after sunrise. Sierra tossed her pack into the back of the big Foundation SUV that Dexter had provided and hopped up onto the passenger’s seat. North took the wheel and they got on the road, stopping briefly at the remains of the burned-out vehicle to retrieve the poisoned glasses. North tossed them into the lockbox in the rear of the Foundation SUV and got back behind the wheel. Sierra didn’t need any psychic talent to sense the prowling anticipation that electrified the atmosphere around him.

  It was clear they were not going to talk about the adrenaline-fueled passion that had overwhelmed both of them a few hours earlier. Probably just as well, she decided. What could you say about that kind of elemental desire aside from the fact that it had been the most exciting sex she had ever had?

  She reminded herself no promises had been exchanged. There had been no talk of commitment. No discussion of the future of their relationship. When it was over they had both fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  This morning North was focused on his mission. She understood. They had a job to do before they could figure out their personal situation. She took comfort from a couple of the lines of the psychic poem her father had sent to her:

  Hope and Love are better paths

  For what ahead may lay.

  It dawned on her that this was the first time she had been able to conjure some serious hope for a relationship. In the past she had tried to think positively at the start of each new affair, but deep down she had always known things would end badly. This time, however, she was not hearing the annoying little ping that whispered, Enjoy the moment. It won’t last.

  She warned herself to keep the situation in perspective. She and North had shared a lot of tense, dangerous experiences lately. That kind of thing created a bond of sorts but not necessarily a permanent one. Nevertheless, this morning she had hope.

  Unfortunately, hope was a fragile thing, a mirror easily shattered.

  “You do realize that, in spite of the precautions and security Mr. Jones will provide, we have to assume Loring will try to cheat tonight,” she said when the silence in the front of the SUV became oppressive.

  “Sure,” North said. “Just business as usual when you’re dealing with the bad guys.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Idon’t like this,” North said.

  “Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing,” Sierra said. “And so does Mr. Jones. Under other circumstances I wouldn’t be using his special services. But given those crazy Puppets that Loring is running, it makes sense to purchase the security upgrade. Besides, Las Vegas is paying for it. Arganbright can afford it.”

  “I understand. But when I gave that crystal tuner to Jones this evening I lost control of it. It’s my only leverage.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones is handling this exchange personally,” Sierra said. “He knows an artifact when he sees one. He won’t hand over your tuner unless he’s sure he’s got the night gun.”

  “He’s never even seen a night gun.”

  “Neither have we. But you gave him a description, and if it’s the real deal it will be very hot,” Sierra said. “It’s not as if you can fake that kind of heat.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re not happy about losing control of the tuner. I get that.”

  They were sitting in her booth in the basement level of the Vault. There were two glasses of sparkling water on the table. The music from the club on the upper level reverberated through the floorboards that formed the ceiling. It was twelve thirty. Most of the tables and booths were occupied. This was the busy time of night for those who dealt in the paranormal. In the shadowed corners of the club, deals were going down. Buyers and sellers were scheduling deliveries with go-betweens.

  Two hours ago she had delivered the tuner to Jones. He had disappeared with it and several members of his security team.

  Sierra’s phone pinged. Even though she had been expecting the message, she was startled. She glanced down. Exchange completed. Private quarters.

  “Here we go,” she said.

  She slid out of the booth. North joined her. They went toward an unmarked door. It opened just as Sierra raised her hand to knock. A woman in her twenties who was dressed as a Vault security guard smiled.

  “Hi, Sierra,” she said. “Mr. Jones is expecting you. Downstairs in the showroom. You know the drill.”

  “I do,” Sierra said. “Thanks, Ally.”

  “Congratulations on a major deal, by the way.” Ally surveyed North. “A Foundation client, no less. Sweet. That outfit has money, and they always pay their bills.”

  It occurred to Sierra that her reputation as a go-between was going to go up several notches if all went well tonight.

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  She walked through the door with North at her heels. They descended another set of steps into a sleek, contemporary office. The door above closed, cutting off the last of the throbbing music.

  “Sierra.” Ambrose rose from behind a glass-and-steel desk. He was dressed, as usual, in a black pullover and black trousers and a black linen jacket. He nodded at North. “Welcome to the Vault, Chastain. Always a pleasure doing business with the Foundation.”

  “Just to be clear, this is a personal matter for me,” North said.

  “I understand.” Ambrose came out from behind the desk. “I never did believe those stories about your grandfather, by the way. Always figured Rancourt got to him.”

  “You were right,” North said. “Sierra and I found Griffin Chastain’s body yesterday. He was shot twice at close range and left in a lab at the Fogg Lake facility.”

  Ambrose nodded. “I’m sorry your family didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing Crocker Rancourt brought to justice. Heard he died of a heart attack years ago.”

  “All I care about at the moment is the weapon that was used on my father,” North said. “Did you get it?”

  “I got a crystal artifact shaped rather like a flashlight, just as you described. No question but that it’s hot, and the heat definitely has the vibe of vintage lab energy. I hope it’s what you need.”

  “Let’s see it,” North said.

  “Follow me,” Ambrose said. “Your artifact is in my private vault.”

  He crossed the room and pressed a concealed lever. A section of wooden paneling slid aside, revealing a steel door. A security panel glowed a faint yellow.
Sierra sensed paranormal heat in the mechanism.

  North smiled for the first time, a faint, appreciative smile. “Crystal tech?”

  “In my spare time I fancy myself something of an inventor,” Jones said. “I specialize in security technology. This lock responds only to my paranormal signature.”

  “I’ve got a similar setup at home,” North said. “My grandfather installed it.”

  “According to the legends, Griffin Chastain was a brilliant engineer.”

  When Ambrose touched the panel the color changed from a pale yellow to bright green. There was a series of muffled clicks before the thick steel door opened.

  Heavy currents of energy wafted out of the vault. Sierra’s senses rose in response. Artifacts of all kinds lined the shelves. Many of them glittered and glowed with the unmistakable radiance of the paranormal.

  “This is an amazing collection,” North said.

  “Thank you,” Ambrose said. “Not all of these items belong to me. In addition to my other services, I offer to store and secure artifacts that are especially valuable or dangerous until a go-between can put a buyer and a seller together.”

  North studied the array of relics. “Not just lost lab artifacts. Some of these relics are very old.”

  “Humans have been messing around with the paranormal since they discovered fire,” Ambrose said. “My own family has a long history linked to the study of psychic phenomena.”

  Sierra remembered the old book North had pulled off a shelf in the Fogg Lake library.

  “Are you by any chance talking about the Arcane Society?” she asked.

  For the first time since she had met him, Ambrose Jones appeared to have been taken by surprise.

  “You know about the Society?” he asked.

  “North found a reference to it in the library at Fogg Lake,” she said.

  “A family named Jones was evidently at the heart of the Society,” North said. “We wondered if it was just a coincidence that you’re also a Jones.”

  Ambrose gave him a cryptic look. “You know what they say—there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

  And that, Sierra knew, was all they were going to get out of Ambrose Jones on the subject of the Arcane Society. North apparently came to the same conclusion.

  “If you ever get tired of trying to protect these artifacts from the raiders, the Foundation would be happy to take them off your hands,” he said.

  Ambrose chuckled. “Victor Arganbright has already made that clear. But at the moment I’m quite capable of protecting my little trinkets. The weapon you want is in that glass case, by the way.”

  The object in the case looked exactly like the night gun that Marge and Matt Harper had described—a clear crystal artifact shaped like a flashlight.

  North went swiftly across the room and started to open the case.

  “Hang on,” Sierra said. “It’s my job to authenticate the artifact, remember?”

  Reluctantly, North stepped back

  Sierra opened the lid of the glass case, stripped off one leather glove and reached inside to pick up the crystal device. The instant she touched it she sensed the energy in it.

  “It’s definitely hot,” she said. “And definitely dates from the era of the lost labs.” She handed it to North. “Also, the last person to handle this gun was very unstable.”

  “Probably one of the Puppets,” North said. He took the weapon from her. Energy shifted in the atmosphere. “It’s been damaged but it definitely has Griffin’s signature.”

  Ambrose watched him with an interested expression.

  “Can I ask what you plan to do with that artifact?” he asked.

  North glanced up. “Reverse engineer it to figure out how it works and then retune it.”

  “You sound like an engineer.”

  “Probably because I was trained as one.”

  Ambrose nodded. “I see. A family talent. But you became a cleaner instead.”

  “I had my reasons,” North said. “Turns out criminal investigations require a similar skill set.” He slipped the night gun inside his jacket. “There’s no way to know yet if I can use this to save my dad, but it’s the artifact I’ve been chasing. Thanks, Jones. I owe you.”

  “You’ll get my bill,” Ambrose said. “And Sierra’s as well.”

  North looked at him. “Loring was satisfied with the crystal in that radio you traded for this?”

  “Yes.” Ambrose raised his brows. “Any reason why he might not have been satisfied?”

  “No, the crystal was originally tuned for Crocker Rancourt. I’m sure it has his psychic signature.”

  “I see. Well, I can tell you that all Loring seemed to care about was that the crystal was live. Not shattered.”

  “He would also have known that the provenance was clean,” Sierra said. “After all, the crystal has been sealed up inside the old Fogg Lake lab since the day Griffin Chastain was murdered.”

  Ambrose studied North. “What do you know about Loring?”

  “We have reason to believe he’s the grandson of Crocker Rancourt,” North said. “Stenson Rancourt’s son. If we’re right, Loring is Harlan Rancourt.”

  “Interesting.” Ambrose looked intrigued. “I’m aware of the explosion that was said to have killed Stenson Rancourt and his son. I don’t believe they ever found Harlan Rancourt’s body.”

  “No,” North said, “they didn’t.”

  Ambrose looked at North. “I assume the crystal is dangerous?”

  “It was originally tuned for Crocker Rancourt,” North said. He paused. “But the last person to have access to it was my grandfather. By that time he was well aware that he could not trust his research partner.”

  Ambrose got a knowing look. “Your grandfather was a magician, wasn’t he?”

  “And an engineer.”

  Ambrose nodded. “So that crystal is very dangerous. It will be interesting to see if Loring can handle it. If you’re right about his identity, he probably has his grandfather’s psychic signature.”

  North smiled a grim smile. “I’m counting on it.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Sierra vaulted up into the passenger’s seat of the SUV and closed the door. She thought about the vibe she had picked up when she authenticated the crystal gun.

  “Whatever you do, don’t try to fire that weapon,” she warned, “at least not without taking precautions. It’s genuine, but there’s something really off about it.”

  “I know.” North cranked up the engine and pulled away from the curb. “The currents are out of sync. Whoever has been using it couldn’t resonate with the vibe of the weapon. Every time it was fired the crystal was damaged.”

  “That explains why Loring was so eager to agree to the exchange.” Sierra put on her seat belt. “He realized the gun is no longer usable.”

  “Yes, but he must have other weapons he thinks he can tune to the Rancourt vibe using that crystal I gave him tonight.”

  “Are you certain you’ll be able to retune that night gun so you can use it?”

  “Shortly before he was murdered, Griffin Chastain gave his wife, my grandmother, a package containing a crystal. It looks exactly like the two we’ve encountered in this case. He told her to keep it safe and above all to make sure it stayed within the family. She never knew what it was for but she understood it was valuable. She gave it to me when I moved into the Abyss. I knew it was important but I didn’t know why. Now I do.”

  “There was a third tuning crystal?”

  “Yes,” North said. “I’m pretty sure it’s the rock sitting on the mantel of my fireplace back in Vegas. If I’m right, I’ll be able to use it to retune the night gun.”

  “Even if you’re successful, what makes you think you can use it to reverse your father’s condition?”

  “As I keep reminding everyone, Griff
in Chastain was a magician. He performed spectacular, death-defying stunts. He was also an engineer. He always built in an escape mechanism of some kind; a way to reverse the trick in the event that something went wrong. I’m hoping he did the same thing when he invented the night gun.”

  “But it’s a weapon. It’s designed to cause harm or even kill. What makes you think he would have wanted to add a way to reverse the effects?”

  “Two reasons,” North said. “The first is that building in a safety feature fits with his style of magic and engineering. He had to know there was a possibility the weapon might fall into the wrong hands.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “I’m not sure the gun is actually a weapon.”

  Sierra looked at him, startled. “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Yet. But from what I have been able to learn about my grandfather, he was never interested in creating weapons.”

  “Well, we know one thing for sure. Delbridge Loring now has a crystal tuned to Crocker Rancourt’s vibe. If he does have access to all the prototype weapons that disappeared from that lab at Fogg Lake, he’s going to try to use the crystal to tune them.”

  “Loring got what he demanded—the crystal that was sealed inside the Fogg Lake lab. And yes, that crystal was originally tuned to Rancourt’s signature. But it doesn’t take much to tweak the tuning of a crystal that is designed to resonate with an individual’s aura. The smallest adjustment, done with finesse and skill by someone who knows a lot about engineering and magic, can render it useless.”

  Sierra smiled. “You’re saying your grandfather tweaked Rancourt’s crystal?”

  “Griffin Chastain was a master of the subtle magic arts. If I’m right, Loring won’t discover that the crystal is useless until he tries to use it to tune a weapon.”

  “And when he does?”

  “The crystal will shatter. In the process it will probably do some serious damage to the aura of whoever is in physical contact with it at the time.”