All the Colors of Night (Fogg Lake #2)(6)

In the underground market, unusual provenance was code for an object that was believed to have a paranormal vibe. Swan’s shop specialized in such artifacts. When Sierra had first entered the competitive go-between business, Gwendolyn Swan had helped her establish her reputation as a true talent by asking her opinion on a couple of relics. Sierra had identified one as a fraud and the other as an item that had probably come from a Bluestone Project lab. Swan, a strong talent herself, had been pleased. That, in turn, had convinced Ambrose Jones to give Sierra a chance.

Gwendolyn Swan paid well and Sierra appreciated the additional income. The money she made as a go-between for the Vault was good, but Jones couldn’t keep her busy all the time. Agents were free to take outside contracts. She could certainly use one to make up for the lost commission tonight.

The last message was from her father. She hit Call Back. Byron Raines answered on the first ring.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She smiled. Her father had the voice of a poet—probably because he was one.

“How did you know?” she asked. “A delivery went bad.”

“How bad?”

“The client tried to kill me. I had to use my locket to escape.”

“Honey, I know you can take care of yourself. But your mother and I really don’t think this go-between business is your calling.”

“I know, Dad, but I’m good at it. Usually. And after what happened at Ecclestone’s, I agree with you—the normal business world isn’t a good fit for me, either.”

There was a short silence.

“Need a poem?” Byron asked.

“Yep. I could use one.”

Some kids were raised with bedtime stories. She had been brought up on bedtime songs from her mother and bedtime poems from her father.

“I think I know of one you might find helpful,” Byron said.

“One of yours?”

“No, the poem I’m thinking of was written by someone else. Give me a few minutes to find it. I’ll e-mail it to you.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you. Love to Mom.”

“Love you, too, kiddo. See you soon when you come home for the Moontide celebration. Oh, and don’t forget your grandfather’s birthday.”

“I won’t. Looking forward to seeing everyone.”

Sierra ended the call and sat quietly, drinking the wine and trying to decompress.

The poem popped into her inbox a short time later. She read the first few lines and smiled. Her father had a gift for finding or crafting a poem that went straight to the heart of the problem.


“I don’t know who I am,” you say,

“Or why my hands deal dust,

As though the lot of cards I hold

Have crumbled as I play.”



She finished the poem and then she finished the wine.

“Message received, Dad,” she said to the empty room. “I’ll keep listening for my calling.”





CHAPTER 3


The Fogg Club was not the most exclusive nightclub in Las Vegas—far from it. Anyone willing to pay the reasonable cover charge was welcome. However, the location, a couple of blocks off the Strip in a dimly lit alley between two massive hotel and casino parking garages, guaranteed that very few tourists stumbled into the place.

From the outside the club looked like a typical low-end Vegas venue, complete with an acid-green LED sign that spelled out the name of the establishment and the slogan Get Lost in the Fogg. It was something of an inside joke. The owner, Hank Sheffield, was from Fogg Lake, Washington.

North Chastain pushed open the door, nodded a greeting to the beefy bouncer and went to stand at the railing, surveying the crowd on the lower level. He tried to make it appear that he was just checking out the scene, searching for friends and acquaintances on the dance floor. But the truth was he had to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light and the flashing strobes. The damned glasses he was forced to wear prevented him from accessing his preternatural night vision.

The glasses had been designed to look like mirrored, wraparound sunglasses, but the lenses were unique—high-tech crystals that had come out of a Foundation lab. According to the doctors, they were all that stood between him and the hellish hallucinations. The lenses might save his sanity but they could not halt the steady deterioration of his talent. The experts had warned him that eventually, probably within a month or so, he would be psi-blind.

Until a few weeks ago he had taken his special vision for granted. For him the world at midnight had been a dazzling place, one he could navigate with the same ease he used to move around in daylight. His talent had enabled him to see the energy that was only visible after dark. Paranormal auroras flooded the skies. Currents and waves of light illuminated the world in an array of hues and shades and shadows that had no names. The colors of night were magic, the real deal.

It wasn’t just the thrill he got from the experience of viewing the world after dark that he would miss for the rest of his life. His ability had made him a damn good cleaner, one of the best. He could track the psychic monsters through the darkest night. When he was in his other vision, the tracks of the bad guys seethed with violent heat.

Going psi-blind would soon cost him his job, the one thing he had been good at—hunting monsters. It had been his way of proving to everyone associated with the Foundation that the Chastains were trustworthy, honorable and loyal; his way of living down his grandfather’s reputation as a traitor.