Chapter Two
Sebastian responded to the voice by fluffing up, chortling, and dashing out into the hall. Alice heard him greet this unknown Owen March as if the stranger was a long-lost pal.
He popped back into the doorway, chortled again, and then returned to March.
And that, she thought, was as good a character reference as she was going to get.
But still.
“Why are you responsible for what just happened in here?” she said.
“Explaining my role in this mess is going to take some time, and we don’t have a lot to waste.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, desperately trying to buy a little of that commodity to figure out what to do next.
“Consider the facts. There has been a lot of commotion coming from your room in the past few minutes—in fact, I think I smell smoke—but I’m the only person who seems to have paid any attention.
No other doors have opened out here in the hall.
No one has sounded an alarm. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? ”
“Unfortunately, no, not in this hotel.”
“By now you must realize that you were set up tonight. I took out the front desk clerk and disabled the camera system, but it won’t be long before whoever is running this op realizes that things have gone wrong.
I give you my word I don’t want to do you any harm.
The dust bunny likes me. Is that enough for now? ”
She wondered what I took out the front desk clerk meant.
She had a million questions, most of which boiled down to: Who was Owen March, and why was he claiming responsibility for her current disaster?
But he had a point. The door of her room had been wide open for a few minutes and there had been a lot of violent action.
Someone should have heard something—someone besides Owen March.
And he was right about the smoke. Now she could smell it, too.
Was this a case of The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Probably not. Given her track record, it was far more likely an example of The enemy of my enemy is another enemy.
But it was midnight, and she was in a hotel room with a dead man in the shower and two unconscious would-be kidnappers on the floor. She could not afford to be too picky about new acquaintances, even if they did happen to know her real identity.
“Come in,” she said, trying for a crisp tone—the voice of a woman in command. “With your hands in the air.”
“Understood.”
The man who called himself Owen March moved into the doorway.
His hands were raised, but he still held his flamer.
She winced inwardly. So much for trying to make a forceful first impression.
She should have instructed him to drop the weapon before inviting him inside.
For all she knew, he was a rival kidnapper trying to con her.
Then again, he could have flamed her right after he dealt with the two would-be kidnappers, but he had not taken advantage of the opportunity. Another point in his favor.
Her thoughts were starting to whirl in increasingly muddled circles. That told her she was really rattled. In her head she could hear Dr. Webber insisting it was a sign that she needed to continue with the medication; proof that she was not ready to leave Serenity Gardens.
But Cadence Ballantine’s soft voice whispered somewhere out on the psychic plane, silently reminding her of Core Principle Number Two: Focus is the key to control.
The flamer immediately steadied in her hand. Note to self: When in doubt, return to the Core Principles. Dr. Nathan Webber could go to hell—preferably the same hell in which she had been imprisoned for three endless months.
Sebastian bustled past Owen, only his innocent baby blues showing, and chortled reassuringly.
He dashed across the carpet and into the bathroom to retrieve his oversized designer sunglasses.
When he had them propped on his furry head, he trotted back out to examine the unconscious men, hovering over them with an avaricious air.
She never knew what would catch his eye, but in general he liked bright, shiny things.
Owen casually slipped his flamer into the shoulder holster under his jacket. “Mind if I take a look?” He nodded toward the intruders. “They’re professionals. We should collect their weapons. Also, it would be interesting to see if there’s any ID.”
“Okay,” she said, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else that sounded logical. Of course they needed to confiscate the attackers’ weapons and check for identification. She should have thought of that immediately.
“While I’m at it, you might want to smother the fire before it takes hold. We’ve got enough problems.”
“What?” She remembered the smoke, turned toward the bed, and saw that a section of the quilt was smoldering. Now she knew what she had hit with that last wild flamer shot. “Oh, damn.”
She set the weapon down, rushed to the bed, grabbed a throw pillow, and batted out the small flames.
“Speaking of ID,” Owen said. “Here’s mine.”
He took a small leather folder out of a pocket and offered it to her. Gingerly, she inched toward him, snatched it out of his hand, and retreated.
He crouched beside the first intruder and performed what appeared to be a fast, thorough, professional pat-down. Sebastian paid close attention.
Satisfied that the quilt fire had been extinguished, she rezzed a nearby lamp and flipped open the folder, braced to learn that Owen March was a law enforcement officer, a bounty hunter, or maybe a private investigator—any one of which would make him a threat.
She was thrown off-balance when she saw the business card.
Owen March
President and CEO
Forensic Psi-Genetics Consulting
The address was Resonance City, a long way from Cape Midnight, on the isolated stretch of the coast where the Gothic monstrosity of the Hotel of Dreams was located.
She looked up, comparing the image on the driver’s license with the man who was in the act of retrieving a nasty-looking knife from the ankle sheath of one of the intruders.
The photo matched the man—dark hair with features that could be described as fierce, resolute, and possibly dangerous, but not standard-issue handsome.
“No ID on these two,” Owen announced. “That settles it. They are pros.” He got to his feet and tossed a collection of weapons onto the bed.
“Judging by the boots and the gear, I’m pretty sure they are ex-Guild men.
A lot of them are on the streets these days because the Guilds are trying to clean up their image by getting rid of guys like this. Bad for the brand.”
According to the license, Owen’s eyes were hazel, but in the shadows of the hotel room she could not be certain of the color.
They still burned with a little residual heat, however.
An individual’s paranormal profile was considered a very personal matter, like one’s health records or stock portfolio, so there was no indication of Owen’s talent on the license, but she was certain he possessed a strong psychic vibe.
The powerful currents whispered in the atmosphere around him—as did the invisible cloak of ice-cold control.
Probably not the type to get kidnapped and whisked away to a para-psych hospital for the criminally insane on his wedding night. Unlike, say, me.
“What is Forensic Psi-Genetics Consulting?” she asked.
“Among other things, I assist law enforcement with tracking down bad guys by analyzing the paranormal profiles of the offenders.”
So he was connected to law enforcement.
She froze. “Is that how you found me?”
“A mistake for which I have already apologized.”
“Why did you come looking for me? Who sent you?”
“All good questions. I’ll tell you everything I know, but not here. Not now. At the risk of repeating myself, we don’t have time—”
The muffled rumble of metal and gears interrupted him. Sebastian growled a warning.
They all turned toward the door and watched as a panel emerged from one side of the frame and slid swiftly toward the opposite side.
“Shit,” Owen muttered.
He lunged toward the door but he was too late. The panel slammed into the hidden opening on the far side of the frame and locked in place with a clang.
She was still dealing with the realization that they were trapped in the hotel room when the lamp that she had rezzed to read Owen’s business card went dark.
At least they still had the shaft of moonlight coming from the window, she thought. And then she heard another ominous rumble.
“The window,” Owen said.
A heavy panel was swiftly gliding across the glass, cutting off the moonlight and the view of the greenhouse behind the hotel, along with any hope of escape.
Owen headed for the window, but she was much closer. She grabbed the only sturdy object that she could hoist—the pole lamp beside the reading chair—and jammed the thick metal base into the rapidly narrowing opening.
The leading edge of the panel struck the solid base of the lamp and ground to a halt. For a few seconds she dared to hope that, having encountered resistance, the panel would retreat the way an elevator door did when it sensed an object blocking its path.
The panel did not move. Hidden gears continued to grind, attempting to power through the barrier.
Owen reached the window, gripped the edge of the panel with both hands, and tried to force it back into the wall. It did not budge. The rumble of concealed machinery abruptly ceased, leaving the panel locked in place. Only a few inches of glass were left uncovered.
He unclipped a slender object that looked a lot like a pen off his belt and aimed it at the steel plate. Nothing happened.
“Shit,” he said. He went back across the room and aimed the pen-shaped gadget at the door. Again, nothing happened. “No luck.”
“Is that some sort of lockpick?” Alice asked.
“Yes, but it only works on modern amber or quartz-based tech, not old-fashioned locks like these that require a key or someone with a very specialized skill set.”