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by Jayne Castle

  His story was one of the oldest in the book. His mother had been a cocktail waitress. His father had been a wealthy man in a Covenant Marriage who had been looking for a little fun.

  "Sierra agreed to cooperate with your investigation?" Cooper asked.

  "Yes."

  "So this MC is purely a business arrangement?"

  "Right."

  "She must be very hungry for the story if she's willing to marry for it," Cooper said thoughtfully. "Any idea what triggered her interest in Jenner and the drug operation in the first place?"

  "It started with some negative pieces she did on the Guild. There were a lot of stories about how many retired Guild men were living on the streets of Crystal and how the Guild ignored their plight."

  Guild men tended to begin their careers early, usually in their late teens; not surprising since dissonance energy para-rez talent was strongly correlated to testosterone and other male hormones. That basic biological fact also went a long way toward explaining the very small number of female hunters in the ranks, although it was considered politically incorrect to point out the connection.

  Pensions and so-called "fry pay" — disability benefits—were of vital importance in the Guild organizations. Hunters not only started out early, they usually ended their careers within twenty years; many quit long before that. It was no secret that frying ghosts for a living provided limited long-term career options. In addition, the work took a psychic toll. Guild men who hung around the catacombs too long lost their edge and got careless. Getting careless underground could not only get you badly burned, it put the clients in jeopardy. That was not good for the organization's image.

  The end result was that if a hunter did not move up into management within the Guild, he usually retired before the age of forty. That meant that a lot of used-up hunters found themselves unemployed with no useful work skills. The retirement benefit plans were generous, but ex-hunters had a bad habit of blowing their monthly checks on the same traditional vices they had enjoyed during their working years: women, gambling, and booze. And now, here in Crystal, on juice.

  "After the attacks on the Guild's failure to look after their retirees, Sierra started doing pieces on the ghost juice problem," Fontana continued. "She pointed out that most of the addicts were ex-hunters. Then came the stories about the disappearances. The headlines in the Curtain claimed that men were being kidnapped off the streets by aliens. Fortunately, the mainstream media ignored the reports."

  "You have to admit it's hard to take that kind of tabloid nonsense seriously," Cooper said.

  "I did a little checking. Sierra's reporting was accurate, at least up to a point. Nearly a dozen ex-hunters, maybe more, have vanished in the past six months. They were all juice heads living in alleys or in abandoned buildings in the Quarter. Not the kind of upstanding citizens who get noticed when they disappear."

  "They sure as hell weren't kidnapped by aliens," Cooper said.

  "No, but something happened to them. They're my men now. I'm responsible for them."

  "Understood." Cooper was quiet for a moment. "You really think Sierra McIntyre can help you find out what's going on over there in Crystal?"

  "She's getting her information from somewhere. I'm pretty sure that she's got contacts on the streets that I don't have. And there's something else."

  "What?"

  "She's just about the only person besides Ray that I can trust here in Crystal at the moment."

  Ray Takashima was one of them, another former Bureau employee. The bonds between all of them had been forged in ghost fire and would never be broken.

  "You and Ray always made a good team," Cooper said. "But if I were you, I'd keep a close eye on your new bride. You don't really know that much about her. Sounds like getting the scoop and bashing the Guild are her top priorities, not playing Guild wife."

  "If I thought I could convince her to walk away from the story, I would. But she's sunk her teeth into it, and I can tell she's not the type to let go. My only other option is to try to protect her by throwing the mantle of the Chamber around her."

  "Sounds like a solid foundation for a marriage, if ever there was one," Cooper said. "Can't wait to see the cover of tomorrow's edition of the Curtain. Don't forget the ring."

  Chapter 5

  THE UNNERVING WHISPER OF ENERGY FEATHERED THE FINE hair on the nape of Sierra's neck the moment she parked her battered little Float at the curb. The fog had lightened somewhat in the afternoon, but the Quarter was still wrapped in a ragged gray blanket. She could see only as far as the intersection.

  She got out cautiously, Elvis perched on her shoulder. He muttered a little.

  "You sense it, too, don't you?" she asked softly.

  Elvis seemed alert but not unduly alarmed. His calm response reassured her. If there had been an imminent threat, he would no longer look like something that had come out of the inside of a vacuum cleaner. He would be sleeked out in full battle-ready mode, his second set of eyes, the ones he used for hunting, wide open.

  She stood on the curb for a moment, surveying the narrow street. There was the usual ambient alien psi that permeated the Quarter, but it was a pleasant, lightly stimulating sensation. That wasn't what was ruffling her intuitive senses. What she was experiencing was the same sensation that had made it impossible to sleep last night; the creepy feeling that she was being observed from the shadows.

  She looked around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. By day Jade Street was always imbued with a slightly seedy, down-at-the-heels atmosphere. The impression was magnified this afternoon because of the ominous gloom of the relentless fog. Nevertheless, this was not a dangerous section of the Quarter.

  The two-hundred-year-old Colonial-era buildings that loomed on either side housed a mix of what the newspaper ads like to call «affordable» apartments, such as the one she lived in, a number of low-end antiquities shops that specialized in alien and First Generation relics, a convenience store, and a tavern called the Green Gate.

  Unlike some of the other streets in the Quarter, there was no obvious drug dealing going on in the doorways, and no hookers lounged or strolled beneath the old-fashioned streetlights. The women of the night preferred the sleazier neighborhoods on the east and west side of the towering green wall that enclosed the ruins.

  "Okay, pal," she said to Elvis. "Here we go."

  Elvis chortled happily and leaned forward when she stepped off the curb and hurried toward the entrance of her apartment building. He liked to go fast. Actually, he got excited about anything that promised a bit of an adrenaline rush. Probably all the caffeine, Sierra thought. Then again, maybe it was the predator in him. Underneath all that adorable gray fuzz beat the heart of a natural-born hunter. Dust bunnies, she had discovered, were omnivorous, but they were definitely riot vegetarians.

  She rezzed the security lock, opened the door, and moved into the small, dark hallway. The manager, Sacker, or the Slacker, as he was known to the tenants, still had not replaced the overhead light. The only illumination came from the dim wall sconces on the landings above. She paused again, waiting to see if the sensation of being watched faded now that she was indoors. It didn't.

  "You think maybe I'm going over the edge and getting downright paranoid?" she said aloud to Elvis. "I'd hate to think that when I look at the Runt, I'm seeing my future."

  Elvis mumbled something. He was either offering reassurance or asking for a treat. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

  She went quickly up the shadowed stairs to the third-floor landing and rezzed the lock of her own door. The tiny one-bedroom apartment was tranquil and welcoming. Once inside, Elvis bounded down from her shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. By the time she arrived, he was on the counter in front of his treat jar.

  She raised the lid and waited. Elvis liked to make his own choice. He fluttered up to sit on the rim of the jar. Maintaining his grip with his hind legs, he leaned down and selected a chocolate cookie from the little heap inside.
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  "That's it for now, King." She replaced the cookie jar lid. "I've got to go change. I wonder what a girl's supposed to wear to a tacky MC wedding. That wasn't covered at Miss Pendergast's Academy for Young Ladies. Guess I flunked out before we got to that subject."

  Her short term at what her mother had called a "silly finishing school" had been her own idea. It had seemed like a good one at the time. Several girls in her class had spent a year getting «polished» at Miss Pendergast's. As the notoriously unsuccessful, unfocused underachiever in a family of successful, focused overachievers, she had been lured by the promise of instant sophistication. In her seventeen-year-old fantasies she had seen herself emerging from the academy with elegant social skills and a worldly attitude that would instantly catapult her into a successful, achieving life.

  But boredom had set in after the first week. She had quickly discovered that devising themes for elegant parties and paying exquisite attention to the details of interior design and table settings had an extremely limited appeal. She had been "counseled out," as the saying went, at the end of the first quarter. She suspected that the only reason she hadn't been asked to leave sooner was because of her family name. The director had been very reluctant to offend a McIntyre.

  The entire episode had become just another family joke, one of many founded on her inability to find her passion, as her grandmother Larken liked to say. Grandmother Larken, from whom Sierra had inherited her intuitive talents, was the only one who had ever really understood her. When things went wrong, as they inevitably did, Sierra knew she could turn to the older woman for comfort and advice. But there was no point calling her this afternoon. Like everyone else in the family, Grandmother Larken disapproved of MCs.

  Sierra made her way into the bedroom, stripping off her jacket and skirt as she went. She opened the door of her closet and surveyed the contents.

  Her wardrobe was a mix of a few of the high-end clothes she had brought with her from Resonance and the more moderate apparel that she had bought for her new life here in Crystal. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her colleagues at the Curtain to think that she was a wealthy socialite who was merely amusing herself with a short-term career as a reporter. No one at the Curtain knew that she was connected to the McIntyres of McIntyre Industries, and she intended to keep things that way.

  For some reason the decision of what to wear to the registrar's office was a lot more difficult than it ought to have been, given the circumstances. When Elvis drifted in, cookie in paw, and took up a position on the win-dowsill, she turned to him for advice.

  "This is a business arrangement," she explained. "Does that mean another suit? Then again, it's supposed to look like a real wedding. Maybe I should wear something a little more formal. Lord knows there will be photos. Fontana and I are going to be plastered across the cover of the Curtain tomorrow. Hope he realizes what he's in for now that he's decided to go over to the dark side of journalism."

  Elvis munched his cookie. She thought he looked like he was trying to be supportive and helpful, but she couldn't be sure.

  A glance at the clock told her that time was getting short. She had to make an executive decision, and she had to make it right now. She yanked the simple, long-sleeved, black, all-occasion dress off the hanger and pulled it on over her head. Everything about it was discreet, understated, and elegant; not too dressy for late afternoon but with enough flair to go smoothly into the evening. She knew that because her cousin Tamsyn had helped her select it. Tamsyn had unerring taste in clothes.

  "Tamsyn says you can never go wrong with a little black dress," she explained to Elvis.

  She found the pair of black pumps on the floor of the closet, slipped some gold hoops into her ears, and rushed into the bathroom to apply lipstick and a little fresh powder. When she looked into the mirror, only one word came to mind.

  "Aargh," she said to Elvis, who had drifted in to watch. "My hair."

  In desperation she seized one of her array of headbands and slapped it on her head. It was the only way to tame the raging sea of curls.

  Hurrying out into the hall, she shrugged into a light overcoat, grabbed her purse, and raced for the door with Elvis back on her shoulder. Picking up on her sense of urgency, he muttered enthusiastically.

  She went back down the stairs and out onto the street. The fog had thickened. That was going to slow traffic even further. There was a good chance now that she might actually be late to the wedding. Somehow she did not think that Fontana would appreciate that. Guild bosses were probably accustomed to punctuality from others.

  She stepped out into the empty street. Halfway across, cold dread and icy panic swept through her senses, an invisible gale-force wind that stole her very breath.

  Instinctively, she stopped. Elvis went immediately from a ball of fluff to a sleek little predator, all four eyes showing. He growled softly in her ear. She looked around frantically. This was the same feeling she'd experienced this afternoon just before the Oscillator 600 had nearly flattened her. But there were no vehicles in sight, and she heard no engine.

  She searched first one end of the street and then the other, turning on her heel. Nothing moved in the gray mist.

  What's wrong with me? Maybe I'm losing it. Too much stress. Not enough sleep.

  Elvis muttered again, more urgently this time. She realized that all four of his eyes were focused behind her.

  She swung around and finally saw him: a dark, shadowy figure moving out of a doorway. He came purposefully toward her. Elvis growled again and whipped around to stare at another doorway on the opposite side of the street. A second man moved out of another vestibule and glided toward her car.

  They were close enough now that she could make out the black leather jackets, leather chaps, and the black motorcycle helmets worn by both men. The visors of the helmets were pulled down, obscuring their features.

  Night Riders. There had been a flurry of reports about the gang in the mainstream press lately. The police had started special patrols in certain neighborhoods, but not this one. There had been no trouble here.

  Obviously, the situation had changed.

  She weighed her options. She would never make it to the safety of her car. Retreating back to her apartment building was equally impossible. That left only one alternative.

  "Hang on," she said to Elvis.

  Clutching her purse, she ran for the door of the Green Gate Tavern. Her high-heeled pumps skittered treacherously on the pavement, but she made it to the sidewalk.

  The Riders had not anticipated her choice of destination, but they changed course quickly. Both of them broke into a run. The ominous thuds of their boots echoed in the fog.

  Elvis clung fiercely to her shoulder, teeth bared. She sensed that if they were cornered, he would try to attack the Riders. That was the last thing she wanted. He would be no match for the two men or the mag-rez guns they were no doubt carrying. Theoretically, it was illegal for anyone but a duly authorized member of a law enforcement agency to carry a mag-rez, but that had done little to keep them out of the hands of criminals.

  One of the men partially raised his helmet.

  "Get her," he shouted to his companion.

  The other one needed no urging. They moved in on her from two directions. She vaguely realized that no shots had been fired. That was probably a good sign. Evidently they didn't intend to shoot her dead in the street.

  But what did they want? According to what she had read, purse snatching wasn't the gang's style. They were into more sophisticated businesses: extortion and drugs.

  She was only a few feet away from the front door of the Green Gate when the heel of her left shoe snapped, throwing her violently to the side. She went down hard on the wet pavement. Her coat protected her from a bad case of road rash, but she knew she would have bruises in the morning. Elvis leaped from her shoulder.

  She stared at the door of the Green Gate, willing it to open.

  "Help." What she had intended as a full-throate
d shout for assistance came out as a weak yelp.

  Adrenaline got her back on her feet in an instant. Miraculously, her glasses were still on her nose. She staggered on the broken heel and almost went down a second time.

  The nearest Rider closed in fast. His associate was not far behind.

  "Damn bitch," the first Rider growled. He reached for her with a black-gloved hand. "I'm gonna show you what happens to women who give me trouble."

  She was aware of a flash of movement at the corner of her eye. Then she saw Elvis. He dashed up the Rider's leather-clad pant leg, white cape flying. She realized that he was heading for the only portion of the Rider's body that was not encased in leather: the small, vulnerable area at his throat.

  An instant later the Rider screamed in pain and astonishment. He shoved up his visor and scrambled back, batting wildly at his neck.

  "Something bit me," he yelped. "Get it off me. Shit, I'm bleeding."

  The other Rider paused. "What in green hell?"

  Sierra half staggered, half ran for the Green Gate. "Elvis. Come here. Hurry."

  He was already on his way back down the Rider's pant leg. He reached the pavement, deftly avoiding a kick from a heavy black leather boot, and scampered toward her.

  "I just got bit by a rat," the injured Rider yelled. "I'm gonna need shots."

  The other man ignored him. He charged after Sierra.

  She shoved open the tavern door and stumbled inside.

  Three khaki-and-leather-clad men lounged on stools at the bar. Simon Lugg, the proprietor, looked at her.

  "Sierra?" he said "What's wrong?"

  "Night Riders," she got out, whirling to slam the door shut. "Call the cops. Hurry."

  It was too late to get the door closed, let alone lock it.

  One of the Riders shoved it open with such force that Sierra was thrown back against the nearest booth.