by Jayne Castle
Zinnia
By Jayne Castle (Jayne Ann Krentz)
Chapter 1
There is nothing complicated about our little arrangement, Mr. Batt. I plan to marry soon. Therefore, I require a wife." Nick Chastain folded his hands on the gleaming surface of the massive obsidian-wood desk. "You will find one for me."
Hobart Batt, attired in dapper evening wear, perched on the edge of his chair with the nervous air of a small mouse-wren. He swallowed visibly and tugged at the collar of his pleated shirt with soft, well manicured fingers. He blinked rapidly as he met Nick's half-shuttered gaze.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Mr. Chastain," he said.
Nick suppressed a sigh. Intimidation was a useful tool, but it had to be used with surgical precision. Apply too much and the patient collapsed into babbling hysteria. Use too little and the response was unsatisfactory.
With the intuitive knowledge that he had acquired from years of practice and experience, he knew he was pushing the limit with Hobart. He also knew that if he eased up on the pressure, Batt might regain his nerve and become defiant.
Decisions, decisions.
"Let me put it in more straightforward terms, Mr. Batt. You lost ten thousand dollars downstairs in my casino tonight."
"Yes, sir, I'm aware of that." Hobart rubbed his palms on his knees. "I have no idea how it happened. I rarely gamble. I came here with some friends and they encouraged me to play cards. I seemed to be doing rather well for a while and then, suddenly, everything went wrong. I tried to recover but things only got worse."
"I understand." Nick tried to project sympathy and deep concern in his smile.
Hobart's eyes widened. He flinched and shrank back in his chair.
So much for the smile, Nick thought. He abandoned the effort. He never had been good at sympathy and deep concern.
Hobart's expression became one of entreaty. "I simply don't have that kind of money, Mr. Chastain. I... I suppose I could sell my house, but I still owe the bank a great deal on the mortgage and I—"
"There is no need for such a drastic move. You don't seem to get the picture here, Mr. Batt. I'm offering to make a deal. Find me a suitable wife and I'll consider the debt repaid."
"A wife?" Hobart stared at him. "You want me to find you a wife?"
Nick forced himself to keep a tight rein on his patience. "What's so strange about that? You're a syn-psych counselor at Synergistic Connections, one of the most exclusive marriage agencies in New Seattle. I'm not asking you to do anything that you don't do on a daily basis for your clients."
"But... but, that's just the point." Hobart plucked a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp brow. "A professional match isn't worth ten thousand dollars."
"It is to me."
Suspicion flickered in Hobart's jumpy gaze. "Why would you be willing to let me repay you with my professional services?"
"I hear you're very good." Nick did not mention that he knew that Hobart had matched his friend, Lucas Trent, an off-the-scale illusion-talent, with Amaryllis Lark, a full-spectrum prism, a few months earlier.
The fact that Trent and Amaryllis had found each other on their own was beside the point so far as Nick was concerned. Hobart had confirmed the supposedly impossible match independently, which meant that as a syn-psych counselor he was one of the best. Nick wanted the best. After all, marriage was a lifetime commitment here on St. Helens. Divorce was virtually impossible.
The institution of marriage and the value of strong families were enshrined in law and reinforced with the full weight of the social structures that had been established by the First Generation colonists from Earth.
Two hundred years earlier, the Founders had been stranded on the lush green world of St. Helens after the energy gate known as the Curtain had closed. When it had become obvious that the Curtain might never reopen and that there was no hope of rescue, the colonists had gathered their philosophers, religious authorities, sociologists, and anthropologists together. The group had hammered out the rules and conventions of a society they believed would be able to survive the rigors of isolation in an untamed wilderness. The cornerstone of their carefully crafted civilization was marriage.
Sooner or later almost everyone got married. Although happiness was not the most important goal in marriage, the Founders had understood that well-matched couples would add to the stability of the institution. To that end, they had established matchmaking agencies staffed with synergistic psychologists to ensure unions that could stand the test of time.
The concept had proven so successful that today non-agency marriages were extremely rare. It was true that a few alliances among the elite were contracted for old-fashioned reasons such as money and power, but the vast majority of the population had the good sense to go through the agencies. Families insisted upon it.
Hobart stared at Nick, perplexed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Chastain, but if you want a wife, why don't you just walk through the front door of Synergistic Connections and register the same as anyone else?"
Nick leaned back in his chair and propped one elbow on the cushioned arm. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand and allowed the silence in the red-and-gilt chamber to deepen while he considered the situation.
Hobart was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated. The jovial, well-dressed little man who had entered the casino three hours ago looked crushed and crumpled now. But Hobart was still able to reason clearly enough to be wary of the bargain Nick had offered. Hobart was scared, but he was not stupid.
It was time to take a closer look at the matrix. Nick drew a breath and released part of it as though he were preparing to throw a knife or pull a trigger. He had no prism to help him focus his psychic energy, but after years of grim determination he had achieved enough control to use his raw paranormal abilities in a crude manner for a few seconds at a time.
He was a matrix-talent, gifted, or cursed, depending on one's point of view, with a rare form of psychic energy that gave him the ability to intuitively perform what was technically known as Synergistic Matrix Analysis. In lay terms, it meant that he could see connections, weigh possibilities, estimate odds, and deduce synergistic relationships where others saw only random events or complete chaos.
Matrix-talents were uncommon and most were not especially strong. They tended to rank below class-five on the paranormal scale that had been developed by the experts.
Very powerful matrix-talents such as Nick were virtually unknown—the stuff of psychic vampire legends.
Research on matrix-talents was limited, not only because the number of people who manifested the unusual form of paranormal energy was so small, but also because most of them refused to be studied. Matrix-talents were a suspicious lot. Some people claimed they were downright paranoid.
The development of a wide variety of psychic powers in the descendants of the colonists had first been observed some fifty years after the closing of the Curtain. As with everything else on St. Helens, the phenomena was governed by synergistic principles.
To work the talent effectively, efficiently, and with a degree of reliability, people who possessed paranormal abilities required the assistance of individuals known as prisms.
Prisms were unique in that their paranormal gifts were limited to the ability to project a psychic crystal. The prism crystal constructs they created on the metaphysical plane were used by those who possessed psychic talent to focus and control their talent.
The combined use of both kinds of psychic power, talent and prism, required willing cooperation from both of the people involved. The necessity of mutual agreement between prism and talent was thought to be nature's way of ensuring that talents didn't become predatory. Just another example of the
laws of synergism in practice.
The need for a prism in order to use his power to the fullest extent annoyed Nick, as it did most strong talents. But the laws of synergy prevailed. You couldn't fight Mother Nature.
Writers of popular fiction and successful filmmakers routinely thrilled audiences with tales of so-called psychic vampires, off-the-chart talents who could overpower innocent prisms and harness their focusing abilities for dark ends.
But scientists scoffed at the notion that any talent, no matter how strong, could be used for more than the briefest of moments without the willing assistance of a prism. Even if, hypothetically speaking, it were possible for a prism to be overpowered, they said, the prism could simply switch off.
Low-level prisms who attempted to focus a much higher power talent were subject to an unpleasant but temporary form of burnout.
The laws of supply and demand being what they were, trained, professional, full-spectrum prisms tended to earn handsome salaries working for firms that supplied their services to clients possessed of various kinds of psychic talent.
Nick did not like to hire professional prisms and, for their part, most prisms did not want to work with matrix-talents. There was something about that particular form of energy that made the focus link between talent and prism extremely uncomfortable for both parties. Most prisms and almost everyone else on the planet considered matrix-talents weird.
There were wide variations in the way paranormal powers manifested themselves in the population. New types of psychic talent were identified and documented on a regular basis. But matrix-talents remained the least understood.
The synergistic psychologists theorized that for some unknown reason matrix-talents had enormous difficulty coming to terms with the paranormal side of their natures. In a society where most types of psychic abilities were accepted as normal and natural so long as they remained within a certain range of power, matrix-talents, even weak ones, were seen as different. An off-the-chart version, such as Nick knew himself to be, was considered a theoretical impossibility.
In addition to being labeled weird, matrix-talents were widely viewed as delicate. They often wound up in the sheltered worlds of academia and esoteric think tanks.
Some ended up in institutions of an entirely different kind, namely the locked wards of syn-psych hospitals. A matrix-talent's ability to see patterns in anything and everything could lead to obsession, paranoia, and suicidal despair.
Nick had concluded long ago that control was the key to surviving with strong matrix-talent. He practiced self-mastery the way others practiced eating and breathing.
Nick prepared to shove energy out onto the metaphysical plane. Without the aid of a prism, a brief glimpse of the pattern of the matrix was all he would be able to catch. But that was all he needed in order to figure out how to apply the right kind of pressure to Batt.
He braced himself for the transient sense of disorientation as his mind instinctively quested for a prism that could be used to focus the power.
The probe for a prism was useless, of course. There were none in the gilded chamber and the focus link only worked at close quarters.
Nick smiled at the syn-psych counselor. Hobart would never know that he had been the target of a short synergistic matrix analysis. Psychic power left no trace on the physical plane. Only a detector-talent could have picked up the energy waves and there were none in the vicinity.
Nick felt the familiar, mildly disturbing vertigo that always accompanied the quest for a prism. He knew the sensation would vanish when a link failed to form. He continued to smile at the uneasy-looking Hobart.
A whisper of light, bright, curiously intense energy brushed across the metaphysical plane. Not his talent. A prism response.
Nick froze.
Impossible.
The shock of unexpected contact made him feel as if he had just stepped out of the second-story window of the red chamber. A cold sensation seized his gut.
And then heat, a blazing, fiercely intimate, sensual heat swept through him.
Nick stopped breathing altogether for the space of several pounding heartbeats. But his mind automatically went about the business of securing a link with the prism it had discovered.
On the metaphysical plane, a glittering construct began to form.
This could not be happening.
Nick jerked his gaze toward the door on the far side of the chamber. No one had entered the room. There was no one around who could project a prism, let alone one this powerful.
Such perfect clarity. He could pour power through this prism forever and never burn it out.
He felt as if he had just downed a full bottle of strong moontree brandy. He was intoxicated. Enthralled. He could feel his blood heat.
Whoever had created this incredible prism possessed an ability that was beyond anything he had ever encountered. It was more than full-spectrum. It could handle his talent and he knew that he was off-the-charts.
The euphoria that seized him belatedly triggered alarm bells. He tried to dampen both the exuberant sensation and an exquisitely painful erection.
He knew one thing with absolute certainty. The prism was a woman. He could feel the essence of her femininity all the way to the bone.
This was not good. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He was not in full control here.
Something extremely odd was occurring. The link between talent and prism was supposed to be neutral and asexual. But there was nothing neutral or asexual about this link. The sense of intimacy threatened to engulf him.
An old, very private demon stirred in the depths of his mind.
No. His hand tightened into a fist. He was not going mad. He could not be going crazy. Chaos would not feel like this.
Nick sucked in another deep shaky breath. There were few things that he feared, but the chaos of insanity was at the top of the very short list. Usually he kept the secret terror buried in a bottomless pit in the farthest reaches of his mind. But tonight he could feel a tendril snaking out of the depths to sink its claws into his stomach.
"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 crossroads 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.