Burning Lamp (6 page)

“Only a few concerns? How often do you think that the Trojan-horse strategy could have been repeated using the same damn horse? Sooner or later, even a fool will catch on, and I can promise you that Luttrell is no fool.”

“The thing is, the fake smoke is so effective. It always empties out a house within minutes and it creates great confusion,” she said.

“But it is also a very obvious tactic. You won’t get away with it again, not if you use it against a Luttrell operation. He’ll have his enforcers waiting for you next time.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“Very likely because that is what I would do in his place. If I operated a string of brothels, trust me, I’d have enforcers watching the clients like hawks by now.”

She cleared her throat. “You are nothing if not forthright, sir. But I refuse to believe that you would have me murdered in cold blood if I staged a raid against one of your operations. That is not your style.”

He smiled at that. “You know little of my style. But I will promise you that nothing that ever happens between us will be in cold blood, Adelaide Pyne.”

She stilled, evidently struck speechless.

“Fortunately, this is a hypothetical conversation,” he added. “As you pointed out, I’m not in the brothel business.”

“What if I raided one of your gambling clubs or taverns?” she asked icily. “Would my body end up in the river?”

“No. My methods tend to be a good deal more subtle than Luttrell’s.”

“Such as?”

He could be patient, he reminded himself. Patience was a virtue in his profession. The ability to wait for the proper moment to strike, combined with his natural intuition, had won him more victories than he could count. Impulse and strong passions were the greatest sins that could beset a crime lord. He had considered himself to be free of both for years . . . until Adelaide Pyne.

“We digress, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, making a valiant effort not to grind his teeth. “Let’s return to the point of this meeting.”

“This meeting, as you call it, is not going well.”

“That is because you are being difficult.”

“It’s a gift,” she shot back.

“I have no trouble believing that.”

She tapped the tip of her umbrella against the pedestal that held the ugly artifact. “Very well, sir. You said you needed my help on an urgent matter. Why don’t you explain exactly what it is you wish me to do for you? Then, perhaps we can discuss the possibility of a mutually agreeable bargain.”

The word
bargain
sparked a lightning-bright warning. He was willing to pay her for her services, but the notion of negotiating with her gave him considerable pause. On the other hand, it was not as though he had much choice in the matter. Adelaide Pyne was his only hope.

“I have a rather long and somewhat complicated story to tell you,” he said carefully.

“Perhaps you will be able to cut your tale short when I inform you that I have an artifact in my possession that I believe belongs to you. A family heirloom, I suspect.”

It was his turn to be stunned. Impossible, he thought. She could not possibly have the lamp.

“What are you talking about?” he asked finally.

“I refer to a rather odd antiquity shaped something like a vase. I believe it is about two hundred years old. It is fashioned of some metal that resembles gold. The rim is set with a number of cloudy gray crystals.”

Anticipation flooded through him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he allowed himself a measure of hope.

“Damn it to hell,” he said very softly. “You found the Burning Lamp.”

“Is that what it is called? Now that you mention it, I suppose it does resemble certain ancient oil lamps. But it is not made of alabaster in the Egyptian manner.”

“How did you know that it belonged to me?”

“I didn’t know it. Not until I met you a few minutes ago. It sounds impossible, but the artifact is infused with a formidable quantity of dreamlight. The patterns of the energy trapped in the lamp are nearly identical to your own. There are dreamprints on the device as well that are clearly from a man of your bloodline.”

He could not believe his good fortune. He had come here today hoping to persuade her to help him search for the lamp. The possibility that she already had it in her possession left him feeling first light-headed and then—predictably enough given his nature—suspicious.

“How long have you had it?” he asked evenly, as though merely curious.

“I was fifteen when I acquired it.”

Something in the very cool way she spoke told him that he was not going to get a complete answer to that question, not yet.

“How did it come into your possession?” he asked.

“I don’t think that matters now,” she said.

One thing at a time, he told himself. He could wait. The first step was to make certain that she possessed the real Burning Lamp.

“You mentioned that the artifact was not particularly attractive,” he said. “I’m surprised you kept it around all these years.”

“It has been a great nuisance, I assure you.”

“Why is that?” He realized that he was still searching for the flaw in what appeared to be an incredible turn of luck.

“It took up valuable space in my luggage during my travels in America, for one thing,” she said. “But the more serious problem is that the energy it gives off is quite disturbing, even to those who do not possess much talent. It is certainly not the sort of ornament that one wants sitting on the mantel. To be honest, I shall be delighted to get rid of it. And so will Mrs. Trevelyan.”

“Who is she?”

“My housekeeper. She does not have any psychical ability, at least no more so than the average person, but just being in the presence of the lamp makes her anxious and uneasy. She is the one who banished it to the attic.”

A torrent of questions flooded his mind. But one stood out.

“If you found the thing so disturbing, why did you keep it?” he asked.

“I have no idea.” She glanced at the vessel displayed on the pedestal. “But you know how it is with paranormal artifacts of any sort. They hold a certain fascination, especially for those of us with some talent. And, as I told you, there is no question but that the lamp is infused with dreamlight. I have an affinity for that sort of energy. I simply could not let it go.”

He exhaled slowly, still trying to dampen his sense of overwhelming relief. It seemed that the lamp had been found and he was standing in front of the woman who might be able to work it for him. But there was still the very real possibility that Adelaide Pyne might not be strong enough to manipulate the dangerous energies that Nicholas had locked inside the lamp.

There were other, equally unpleasant but plausible outcomes even if it transpired that Adelaide was sufficiently powerful. She might inadvertently or even deliberately murder him with the lamp’s radiation. Short of that, she could destroy his talent, intentionally or otherwise.

Last, but by no means least, the lady might simply refuse to work the lamp for him because she did not approve of crime lords. But she was the one who had offered to bargain, he reminded himself. Evidently he had something she wanted. That gave him an edge. Once he knew what another person desired he could control the situation.

“It would appear that we are going to do business together, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself properly.”

He lowered his talent and sank back into his normal senses, letting her see him clearly for the first time.

“I am Griffin Winters,” he said, “a direct descendant of Nicholas Winters.”

“Should I be impressed, sir?”

He was briefly disconcerted. “Not necessarily impressed, but I expected you to recognize the name.”

“Why is that? Winters is not an uncommon name.”

“You are aware of the Arcane Society, are you not, Mrs. Pyne?”

“Yes. My parents were members. My father had a passion for paranormal research. I was registered in the genealogical records of the Society shortly after I was born. But I have had no contact with the Society since the age of fifteen.”

“Why is that?”

“My parents were killed in a train accident that year. I was sent off to an orphanage for young ladies. What with one thing and another I lost my connection to the Society.”

“My condolences, madam. I lost my parents when I was sixteen.” He realized that he had spoken on impulse. The knowledge worried him. He never did anything on impulse. Above all he did not discuss his own past, not even with his closest companions.

Adelaide inclined her head in a graceful gesture of silent sympathy. For a moment he had the sense that a delicate bond had been forged between them.

“As I said,” she continued, “My father was fascinated with all things paranormal. I recall a few of the subjects he talked about but I do not recall him mentioning a Nicholas Winters.”

“Nicholas Winters was a psychical alchemist. He was first a friend and later a rival and finally a mortal enemy of Sylvester Jones.”

“You refer to the Jones who founded Arcane?”

“Yes. Like Jones, Nicholas was obsessed with discovering a way to enhance his talents. He constructed a device that he called the Burning Lamp. Somehow he succeeded in trapping a vast amount of dreamlight inside it. His goal was to employ the device to acquire a variety of powers.”

“You think to follow in your ancestor’s footsteps?” The disapproval was once again crisp in her voice. “I admit that I am not well acquainted with such matters, but I recall very clearly that my father often mentioned that individuals endowed with multiple talents are not only quite rare but also invariably mentally unstable. He said that within the Society there was a word for such people. It was the name of a creature in some ancient legend.”

“The word is ‘Cerberus,’ the name of the monstrous, three-headed dog that guarded the gates of hell.”

“Yes, I remember now,” she said, appalled. “Surely you are not so lost to reason that you would wish to transform yourself into a psychical monster? If that is your objective, rest assured you will get no assistance from me.”

“You misunderstand, Mrs. Pyne. I have no desire to become an insane rogue talent. On the contrary, I would very much like to avoid that fate.”

“You really don’t know your Arcane history, do you?”

“I just explained—”

“Never mind. You will have to take my word for this. According to my ancestor’s journal, I am doomed to become a Cerberus unless I can find the lamp and a dreamlight reader who can reverse the process of the transformation to a multitalent.”

“Good grief. You actually believe this?”

“Yes.”

“But how can you possibly know such a thing?”

“Because the transformation has already begun.”

Her sudden stillness told him that she was starting to wonder about his sanity.

“I am in need of saving, Mrs. Pyne,” he said. “It appears that you are the only one who can help me.”

“I really don’t think—”

Sensing weakness, he pounced. Like the predator that I am, he thought. Not that he would let that get in the way of achieving his objective.

“I am prepared to trust you,” he said quietly. “I have allowed you to see me clearly. Will you honor me by returning the favor?”

For a moment he thought she would refuse. She tapped the tip of her umbrella against the pedestal again, thinking.

“I’m quite certain you could find me again if you wished to do so,” she said finally. “So I suppose it no longer matters if you see my face.”

It was not precisely the gracious capitulation he had hoped to provoke but he did not argue. She was right; he could find her again.

Everything inside him tightened as he watched her crumple the black netting up onto the brim of her hat. It was as if his entire future was about to be revealed to him.

Her intelligent, expressive features riveted his attention. Her whiskey-colored hair was pulled back into a chignon that was at once severe and stylish. But it was her hazel eyes that fascinated him most. They were the eyes of a woman who had seen something of the darkness in the world. He had expected as much. She was a widow, after all. In addition, she had spent several years abroad in the wilds of America. She conducted daring raids on brothels and rescued girls who were otherwise destined for short, hard lives as whores. She was acquainted with the rather dangerous Mr. Pierce, a remarkable accomplishment in itself.

She might be an irritating social reformer but Adelaide Pyne’s gaze told him that she was far more aware of the hard truths of the world than most ladies of her class and station in life. Such forbidden knowledge always appeared in the eyes.

What astonished him was that there was also a bright, determined spirit about her. She was, he concluded, one of those foolish, willfully blind individuals who, even when confronted with harsh realities, continued to believe that goodness and right would ultimately prevail.

He could have told her otherwise. The war between Dark and Light was eternal. Victories were fleeting at best and went to whichever force happened to command the most power at any given moment. In his experience the elements that thrived in the shadows could be beaten back but only temporarily. Yet there were always those like Adelaide Pyne who would fight these battles regardless of the odds.

Such naïveté was incomprehensible to one of his nature, but he knew very well that it had its uses. The quality could be easily manipulated.

He smiled again, satisfied.

“Mrs. Pyne, you are the woman of my dreams.”

 

 

 

“I SINCERELY HOPE THAT I AM NOT THE WOMAN OF YOUR dreams,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes just a little. It seemed to her that the energy in the atmosphere around him grew heavier, more ominous. The hair on the nape of her neck lifted.