Page 101 of It takes a Psychic

“Thanks,” Leona said. “Keep me informed, okay?”

“Will do.” Eugenie switched into her Mom voice. “Will you be seeing your new friend, Oliver, again?”

“Yes,” Leona said, bracing herself for the inquisition. “As a matter of fact, he’ll be here for dinner tonight.” There was no need to add that he would be spending the night.

“Dinner?” Eugenie’s voice sharpened. “At your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds lovely. As it happens, Charlotte and I are free tonight. We could join you. We’d love to meet Mr. Rancourt.”

Panic struck Leona. It was too soon. She needed more time to get used to the idea of living with Oliver. Time to make sure that what they had was going to last.

“Well—” she began.

“I’ll bring my famous lasagna,” Eugenie said.

“I’ll bring the wine,” Charlotte added.

I’m doomed,Leona thought. It was going to be Meet the Parents Night. She had to warn Oliver.

Mercifully, the security system buzzed, announcing a caller at the lobby door.

“Sorry, Moms, gotta run. There’s someone at the downstairs door.”

“Who?” Eugenie demanded.

“I don’t know. Bye.”

“Leona, make sure you know who is on the other side of that door before you open it,” Charlotte said.

Leona groaned. “I’m not an idiot, Mom.” She rezzed the button that activated the video monitor. A familiar face appeared. For a beat she was off-balance. Bewildered. “It’s okay, I recognize him. Bye.”

She ended the phone call and rezzed the audio on the monitor. “What are you doing here, Matt?”

Matt Fullerton glared at the street-level call box screen with the expression of a desperate man. Not a typical look for him.

“Let me in, Leona,” he said quietly. “I need to talk to you right now. There’s been an accident in the Underworld directly beneath the Antiquarian Society mansion. Lives are at stake.”

“That’s horrible.” Leona stared at the screen, stunned. “But the Guild has experts who deal with situations like that. Why do you need me?”

“Because this incident involves artifacts of unknown power—a room full of AUPs, in fact. We don’t know which object rezzed the problem. Even if we did, none of us has the talent to de-rez it. There may be other people who can handle this, but I don’t know of anyone except you, and time is running out.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

“Whose idea was it tocharge through that doorway straight into a room full of hot AUPs without making sure the entrance wasn’t trapped?” Leona asked.

Matt’s jaw was rigid. “There was no indication of a gate or a trap. The doorway looked clear.”

She opened her mouth to launch into a lecture on basic protocols for dealing with artifacts of unknown power but stopped herself at the last instant. This wasn’t the time or the place. It dawned on her that she was actually feeling sorry for Matt. He had been lucky enough to snag the position of team leader for this project. His future at Hollister depended on how well he handled it. She knew that he must have been truly desperate to come to her for help—desperate and genuinely concerned about the fate of the people trapped on the other side. He wasn’t a monster, just a very ambitious academic. There were a lot of those around. She ought to know.

The two of them were standing in front of a quicksilver gate that now blocked the entrance to the Antiquarian Society’s Underworld storage chamber. Roxy was on her shoulder, fluffed out with all four eyes open. Two more members of the Hollister Department of Para-Archaeology hovered nearby. They looked worried. They had reason to be. Three of their colleagues were locked on the other side of the strange gate.

Matt had ignored the speed limit driving across town and into the exclusive neighborhood on the hillside overlooking the city. The mansion that housed the Society’s headquarters was no longer a crime scene, but it was a busy site. A security company had been hired to protect the artifacts until they could be cataloged, photographed, and removed by the Hollister team. Vehicles bearing the logo of a professional transport company that specialized in valuable and potentially dangerous objects were lined up in the long, sweeping driveway.

An entrepreneur had set up a catering truck. A small scrum of reporters had gathered around it, cameras at the ready, on the off chance that something exciting happened. They had not yet been informed of the disaster under the mansion. Matt had made it clear that Hollister did not want that sort of publicity.

He had done his best to shield her from view as he rushed her out of the car and into the mansion. She knew the last thing he wanted was to have the press get wind of her presence on the scene. Officially, Hollister had severed all connections to her. That hurt, but she refused to let the pain show. She had a job to do. She was a professional consultant now. Time to act like one.

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