Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
“The exhibition was a success.” Trent Hatch poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to his half brother. “The mood tiles were quite effective. The Alchemist will be pleased. By the way, congratulations on your Succubus. It caused quite a stir.”
The thing you had to remember about artists was that they craved positive feedback.
Vincent stopped pacing the room long enough to snatch the glass out of Trent’s fingers. He took a long swallow and resumed pacing. He was energized. On fire.
He was also, Trent thought, increasingly unstable.
The streak of borderline insanity came from Vincent’s father’s side, along with his head-turning good looks and ability to charm women.
Their mother’s second marriage had not ended well.
Her husband, Conrad Grant, had spent his final days in a psychiatric hospital.
“The bitch saw Succubus, Trent.” Vincent gulped some more whiskey. “She recognized herself. She was terrified. She finally understands that not only do I know the truth about her, I can and will control her.”
There was a feverish excitement about Vincent that was growing stronger and more worrisome by the day.
Trent watched him stalk back and forth across the study.
He was not the only one keeping an uneasy eye on his half brother.
He knew the security team was, too. That was not good news.
Monica and Moira—he had never figured out which was which—were well aware that his brother was becoming increasingly erratic.
The only thing protecting Vincent for now was the fact that the Alchemist needed him.
That state of affairs would not last much longer.
Trent had tried to explain that Vincent’s mood swings were a natural aspect of the artistic temperament, but he knew Monica and Moira were not buying that story.
Vincent was clearly deteriorating, and the psychedelics he was using to open the inner path to the wellspring of his creative powers were not helping.
Trent drank some whiskey. As usual, he had made sure the scrambler was running when he and Vincent walked into the room a short time ago. The faint pulse of paranormal radiation was almost undetectable, but it was enough to make any conversation sound like it was coming from deep underwater.
He was reasonably certain that the Scary Blondes could not eavesdrop, but he no longer took anything for granted when it came to the project.
The sense that a doomsday clock was ticking beneath their feet had been growing stronger for weeks now.
The paranormal radiation levels had risen so much recently that even those without any measurable talent were picking up the vibe.
The turnover in artists and staff would soon be unsustainable.
Even some of the test subjects at the inn had started to notice the disturbing energy.
“The Harper woman needs to be afraid,” Vincent said. “She must learn that I am the master of my Muse. She can no longer control me.”
“I know you blame her for your inability to fuck, but—”
“It’s her fault,” Vincent shouted. He abruptly stiffened, his eyes widening in panic. He stared at the door of the living room, evidently remembering the security team on the other side.
“Vincent, listen to me—”
Vincent took a shaky breath and managed to lower his voice.
“She’s responsible for what’s happening to me.
She’s a succubus, I tell you. The real thing.
She came to me in my dreams and stole my energy.
My essence. My artistic vision. The only way for me to recover is to possess her.
If I can’t control her I will have to destroy her.
There is no other option. This is life or death for me. You have to help me.”
Trent swirled the whiskey in his glass. “She’s here. She has seen your art. I promise that you will have your time with her, but meanwhile, we have an agreement with the Alchemist.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Vincent gulped down some more of his drink.
“Speaking of which, the gallery mirrors were drained tonight. The fountain is very low, too.”
“I’ll take care of them.” Vincent folded his right hand into the shape of a pistol and aimed his forefinger at Trent. “Just remember, when the project is finished the succubus is mine.”
“I won’t forget.”
Vincent downed the last of the whiskey, yanked open the study door, and slammed it behind him.
Trent waited a moment, letting the silence settle before he went to the window to look out at the empire he had created.
The lights of the colony sparkled and dazzled in the night.
The windows of the inn glowed, deceptively warm and welcoming.
It was late. Most of the employees had driven back to their homes in the small community of Fool’s Gold, leaving only a skeleton staff.
The gates were locked. The cutting-edge security systems and cameras were being monitored by the Scary Blondes.
The compound was a fortress. It was also a prison. He ought to know. He hadn’t left it in months. That, too, was part of the deal with the Alchemist.
He was heartily sick of pretending to care about art. He longed to escape and mingle with his own kind—the rich, brilliant, hard-charging, self-made entrepreneurs of tech who were changing the world.
He reminded himself that when the project was concluded he would not only take his rightful place among the tech bro kings, he would be free to focus on his new invention.
He just had to hold things together for a few more days. It would all be worth it.
Back at the start, he had struggled. There had been failure after failure.
He possessed a psychic-grade talent for photonics, and he was convinced that certain light waves from the paranormal end of the spectrum could be used to slow the aging process of cells in the human body.
But he had been unable to secure funding.
Venture capitalists had laughed at the idea of wasting money on what they slammed as the woo-woo thing.
Reluctantly he had turned his attention and his talent to the medical imaging device that had made him rich. It was based on cutting-edge photonics but did not involve light from the paranormal ends of the spectrum.
He had been successful, but instead of enjoying the money and the status, he had succumbed to boredom and a slow, creeping depression.
It turned out fast cars terrified him and he got seasick on yachts.
The women had been fun for a while but none of them had been interested in his passion for photonics, let alone his theories about paranormal light waves. He had needed more—his work.
Just as he had begun to despair he had been contacted online by a reclusive inventor who had identified himself only as the Alchemist. The deal had been struck over a highly secure messaging app and it had seemed too good to be true.
Now he woke up every morning remembering the old advice about the risk of dining with the devil. But there was no turning back.
He crossed the room and opened the door. The Scary Blondes were sitting in chairs positioned in front of a massive array of computer and camera monitors. They immediately stood. They did not actually salute but they might as well have.
Trent stifled a sigh. In the old days he had been obsessed with tall, gorgeous blondes. He had dreamed of having a couple of them draped on his arms. He supposed this was a classic case of be careful what you wish for.
He had been assured that the twins were skilled in various forms of martial arts and that they were expert with firearms of all types.
The pair had been sent by the Alchemist, who had insisted they be hired.
Trent had to admit the women were impressive.
He certainly felt safe knowing they were on guard.
But Moira and Monica towered over him. He told himself he shouldn’t let them make him nervous, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he got when he was around them.
“Sir,” Monica said.
Or maybe she was Moira.
“Sir,” the other one said.
“I’m going into my sauna for a while.” He tightened his grip on the doorknob, eager to escape. “Please make sure that I am not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closed and locked the door and turned to make his way down a hall to his private spa. The white-tiled room gleamed. He stripped off his clothes, grabbed a fluffy towel, and entered the chamber.
With its wooden walls, low, soothing light, and heated rocks, the interior of the small space looked like a traditional sauna. It could function as one, as well. But as with everything else in the art colony, there was a secret under the surface.
He sat down on a wooden bench and tapped in a code on the control panel. When he was finished he slipped on a pair of heavily tinted goggles and sat back.
The energy level in the room rose slowly but steadily.
Through the darkened lenses of the goggles he watched the light come up and shift from the visible end of the spectrum to the nameless colors at the far end.
It was light that only some insects, birds, and humans with a certain psychic sensitivity could perceive.
The little sparks of electricity across his senses told him the treatment was working, stimulating his body at the cellular level, repairing the damage done by the aging process.
He had begun the treatments as soon as the radiation chamber had been completed two months earlier, but he was certain he was already experiencing the effects of the light therapy. He felt more vigorous. He was sure his psychic senses were becoming sharper.
The Alchemist had come up with the answer to the old question What do you offer the man who has everything?
The answer, Trent thought, was a uniquely equipped lab, one that allowed him to tap into energy generated by the beating heart of nature.
The Alchemist had made it possible for him to test his theories concerning the possibility of harnessing paranormal light to cure disease and lengthen the lifespan.
He was the first test subject.