crucial few seconds. By the time he reached the window and flattened himself against the wall, he knew he was too late.
From where he stood he could see a section of the fogbound passage that ran the length of the building. The combination of river mist and darkness made it impossible to spot his quarry but he heard footsteps pounding toward the entrance of the alley. A lot of footsteps; he thought. Two people, not one. He considered summoning a ghost to stop the fleeing intruders out in the street. The problem was that he had no way of knowing who else might be in the vicinity. It would not look good in the morning papers if the headlines implied that the new Guild boss made a habit of singing innocent bystanders with wild ghost energy. The damn image thing.
“Emmett?” Lydia’s voice came from the front room. She sounded anxious and alarmed. “Emmett, are you okay? Answer me.”
“I’m okay.”
So much for following orders. Out of nowhere he suddenly recalled the records of the inquiry into Lydia’s Lost Weekend. They had been marked confidential, of course, but he had not had any trouble getting a copy through his Guild connections.
The two hunters who had been assigned to Lydia’s team had testified that she had gotten into trouble because she had not obeyed their orders.
Sometimes it was all too easy to comprehend just how that might have happened, he thought. She was, by nature as well as by training, strong willed. In the pursuit of an objective, she could be very, very determined.
He turned away from the window and saw four eyes glowing in the darkness a short distance away.
“Thanks for the backup, Fuzz.” He reached down and scooped up the dust-bunny, who was sleeked into full hunting mode. “But we missed ’em.”
Carrying Fuzz, he walked out of the study and went into the living room. Lydia was a silhouette in the doorway.
“They’re gone,” he said.
“What happened?” she asked, closing the door.
“Some other folks got here first. They made it out through the window before I could grab them.”
“You’re all right?” she asked sharply.
“Fuzz and I are both fine. Probably a couple of burglars. Not a big surprise in this neighborhood. They must have got the word that Maltby was dead and thought they’d drop in to see if he left any drugs around.”
“Hmm.”
He did not like the sound of that hmm , but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he removed the flashlight from his pocket, rezzed it with a small pulse of psi energy, and played the beam across the room. “They really tore this place apart looking for his stash.”
Together they surveyed the chaos that had overtaken the tiny living room. The carpet had been rolled up and shoved to one side. Foam spilled out of ripped cushions on the sofa. Books had been swept off the shelves and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
“They were certainly looking for something,” Lydia said ominously.
“Leftover Chartreuse, like I said.”
“Maybe.” She directed her own light at a dismembered sofa. “But there’s another possibility.”
He glanced at her. “You think they wanted to see if he left some clue about whatever it was he wanted to tell you? Don’t go there, Lydia. We don’t need any conspiracy theories to explain this search. Maltby did drugs, remember? Odds are this was done by a couple of opportunists looking for some free dope.”
“You’ve got to admit that Maltby’s accidental overdose today, the very day he chose to leave a message saying he had something important to tell me, is what you might call a very interesting coincidence.”
“It’s a coincidence. Period.” Resigned, he led the way back to the study.
“I really hate when you get that tone in your voice,” she said, hurrying after him.
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you know I’m right but you don’t want to admit it.”
“I’m a bigger person than that,” he said. “I can admit when you’re right.”
“Really? Try it
From where he stood he could see a section of the fogbound passage that ran the length of the building. The combination of river mist and darkness made it impossible to spot his quarry but he heard footsteps pounding toward the entrance of the alley. A lot of footsteps; he thought. Two people, not one. He considered summoning a ghost to stop the fleeing intruders out in the street. The problem was that he had no way of knowing who else might be in the vicinity. It would not look good in the morning papers if the headlines implied that the new Guild boss made a habit of singing innocent bystanders with wild ghost energy. The damn image thing.
“Emmett?” Lydia’s voice came from the front room. She sounded anxious and alarmed. “Emmett, are you okay? Answer me.”
“I’m okay.”
So much for following orders. Out of nowhere he suddenly recalled the records of the inquiry into Lydia’s Lost Weekend. They had been marked confidential, of course, but he had not had any trouble getting a copy through his Guild connections.
The two hunters who had been assigned to Lydia’s team had testified that she had gotten into trouble because she had not obeyed their orders.
Sometimes it was all too easy to comprehend just how that might have happened, he thought. She was, by nature as well as by training, strong willed. In the pursuit of an objective, she could be very, very determined.
He turned away from the window and saw four eyes glowing in the darkness a short distance away.
“Thanks for the backup, Fuzz.” He reached down and scooped up the dust-bunny, who was sleeked into full hunting mode. “But we missed ’em.”
Carrying Fuzz, he walked out of the study and went into the living room. Lydia was a silhouette in the doorway.
“They’re gone,” he said.
“What happened?” she asked, closing the door.
“Some other folks got here first. They made it out through the window before I could grab them.”
“You’re all right?” she asked sharply.
“Fuzz and I are both fine. Probably a couple of burglars. Not a big surprise in this neighborhood. They must have got the word that Maltby was dead and thought they’d drop in to see if he left any drugs around.”
“Hmm.”
He did not like the sound of that hmm , but he chose to ignore it. Instead, he removed the flashlight from his pocket, rezzed it with a small pulse of psi energy, and played the beam across the room. “They really tore this place apart looking for his stash.”
Together they surveyed the chaos that had overtaken the tiny living room. The carpet had been rolled up and shoved to one side. Foam spilled out of ripped cushions on the sofa. Books had been swept off the shelves and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
“They were certainly looking for something,” Lydia said ominously.
“Leftover Chartreuse, like I said.”
“Maybe.” She directed her own light at a dismembered sofa. “But there’s another possibility.”
He glanced at her. “You think they wanted to see if he left some clue about whatever it was he wanted to tell you? Don’t go there, Lydia. We don’t need any conspiracy theories to explain this search. Maltby did drugs, remember? Odds are this was done by a couple of opportunists looking for some free dope.”
“You’ve got to admit that Maltby’s accidental overdose today, the very day he chose to leave a message saying he had something important to tell me, is what you might call a very interesting coincidence.”
“It’s a coincidence. Period.” Resigned, he led the way back to the study.
“I really hate when you get that tone in your voice,” she said, hurrying after him.
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you know I’m right but you don’t want to admit it.”
“I’m a bigger person than that,” he said. “I can admit when you’re right.”
“Really? Try it
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