Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-three

She came awake on the remnants of a classic anxiety dream in which she was desperately trying to find Gideon and simultaneously warn Talia and Pallas that Irene Morgan was dangerous. Oh, and there was a killer named Falcon somewhere in the picture. But she was lost in a thick fog.

For a moment she instinctively held herself very still, her eyes closed, and struggled to suppress the splash of panic that threatened to override her senses. She forced herself to concentrate in an effort to separate real memories from the misty landscape of the dream.

One by one the images fell into place—the energy prints in the darkroom, Shelton unconscious on the dining counter, Irene emerging from the laundry room with a syringe.

The last dreamscape clip was infuriating enough to make her open her eyes. She found herself looking up at a perfectly normal ceiling. She was on a bed. The bed was still neatly made and she was still wearing the jeans, tee, and sneakers she’d had on earlier.

Gideon.

She refused to think about the possibility that he might be dead. She would know if he was gone, she thought. She clung to that conviction.

She bolted to a sitting position—and fell back onto the quilt when she was overcome with a wave of stomach-churning dizziness. She took a couple of deep breaths and tried again, moving more cautiously this time. The room wavered and shifted a bit but settled down after a moment.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed but she did not try to get to her feet. Her first reaction was relief. She was not on a hospital gurney and there was no one wearing a surgical mask bending over her. When she remembered to check her watch she saw that it was almost midnight. So, she had lost a few hours but not a whole night. She groaned, remembering the last moments in her apartment.

“I never saw you coming, Irene. So much for friendship.”

And so much for her stupid talent. She had viewed Irene’s aura and her prints often enough during the past few months. Why had she never detected the threat? Apparently she still had a lot to learn when it came to reading energy fields. Stupid learning curve.

The lamp beside the bed was on. In the soft light she could see that the room was furnished like an expensive guest suite in someone’s private home. Shades covered floor-to-ceiling windows. There was an adjoining bath.

First things first.

She used the facilities and then crossed the room to press the switch on the wall. The shades rose, revealing a wide deck overlooking a moonlit cove and the night-darkened ocean beyond.

One of the windows proved to be a glass-paned door that opened onto the deck. She tried it immediately but it was electronically locked from the outside.

The suite was nicely furnished and it had a multimillion-dollar view, but it was built to serve as a prison.

She went back across the room and tried the main door. She was not surprised to discover that it, too, was secured from the other side.

She moved to the bedside table and turned off the lamp. There were energy prints scattered around the room. Over time people had come and gone in the space, leaving a light ankle-deep fog. She saw Irene’s prints, too. The seething currents in the splashes of energy laid down by her ex-friend indicated a high level of tension, but they appeared stable. Maybe that’s how it was with sociopaths?

There was a second set of new prints near the door. They were anything but stable.

The unnerving tracks were fever-hot and radiated an unwholesome energy that her intuition told her was verging on dangerously chaotic. She was sure that whoever had left the prints was barely holding it together.

A muffled click followed by a short buzz made her flinch. She turned quickly and watched the main door open. Irene walked a few steps into the room.

“I take it pizza-wine-and-movie night has been canceled this week,” Amelia said.

“I know you’ve got questions,” Irene said. “But so do we. That’s why you’re here.”

“Did you murder Shelton?”

“No. He’s sound asleep. When he wakes up he won’t remember anything.”

“Where’s Gideon?”

“You might not believe this, but I have no idea. He seems to have disappeared.”

“You’re lying.”

Irene sighed. “It’s the truth. The last we heard, he showed up at the safe house and was being interrogated. Then we lost contact with the agent in charge. Unfortunately we’re a little short-staffed these days, thanks to you and Sweetwater.”

“What do you want with me?” Amelia said.

“I’ll explain everything but first there is someone I want you to meet.”

“Your pal Falcon?”

“No. Falcon is dead.”

Amelia went cold. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Irene said.

A man appeared in the doorway before Irene could answer.

“Hello, Amelia. A pleasure to meet you again. My name is Cutler Steen. I realize you don’t remember me—”

“I remember you,” Amelia said. “You’re the creepy guy in the Night Island photograph, the whack-job responsible for kidnapping my friends and me and shooting us full of some weird drug. How many innocent people have you murdered in the course of your crazy experiments?”

“So you do remember me.” Cutler looked intrigued now. “That is extremely interesting. The drug you and your friends were given is supposed to induce permanent amnesia. I wonder if your core psychic senses combined with the enhancement serum has allowed you to overcome the memory loss.”

Amelia ignored him and turned back to Irene. “How did you get involved with this creep?”

“I had no choice in the matter,” Irene said. “He’s my father.”