The door opened again, startling all three of them. Cruz walked into the room.

Fairstead rushed back out of the vault, empty-handed. He was clearly agitated and alarmed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sweet.w.a.ter," he said. He slid an uneasy glance at Revere. "This is a private showing."

"Don't mind me," Cruz said. He gave Revere a truly dangerous smile. "I'm old-school. That means that Lyra leaves with the one she came with. That would be me."

"It was my understanding that Miss Dore was here in her professional capacity," Revere said. "Not as your date."

"Stop this," Lyra said tightly. "Stop it right now."

All three men looked at her.

"How dare you, Cruz Sweet.w.a.ter?" She stormed toward him. "You asked me to give you another chance, but look what you've done to me."

He frowned. "I haven't done anything."

"Oh, yes, you have. You have humiliated me in front of my most important client and the proprietor of the most respected amber gallery in the entire city. You've made me look like one of your bimbo girlfriends instead of a real professional consultant. How could you, after all the promises you made?"

She slapped his face hard, much harder than she had intended. The sharp crack of the blow resonated in the small s.p.a.ce. For an instant she froze, shocked by her own small act of violence. She had been going for a theatrical touch, not a real blow. She had never before deliberately struck anyone in her entire adult life.

Cruz did not move. He just stood there, his jaw reddening from the blow. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

She burst into tears and rushed toward the door.

"I will never forgive you," she wailed. "This was going to be my big chance to recover from that mountain of debt I've been under, thanks to losing that lawsuit against Amber Inc. I was going to consult for Wilson Revere. You've ruined everything. Just like last time. I don't know why I let you talk me into trusting you again."

She yanked open the door and fled, sobbing. The clients, attendants, and guards in the outer room froze, transfixed by the sight of a hysterical woman running through the elegant establishment.

When she reached the front of the room, someone hurried to push open one of the thick gla.s.s doors for her. Dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, she rushed out onto the sidewalk.

She started walking briskly. As soon as she had put some distance between herself and the gallery, she stopped crying and started watching for a cab. It was typical of her luck, she thought, that there wasn't one anywhere in sight. She spotted a bus stop at the end of the block and hurried toward it.

Cruz appeared before the bus did. No surprise there, she thought. She watched as he eased the Slider against the curb.

He leaned across the seat to open the door.

"Get in," he said.

She thought about it for a few seconds, but there really was no point pretending he wasn't there. Cruz would not go away like one of her hallucinations.

She slid into the front seat, closed the door, and buckled her seat belt.

Cruz checked the rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb.

"What the h.e.l.l was that about?" he asked.

"I slapped your face." She was still stunned by the anger that had momentarily turned everything red.

"Yeah, I noticed." He took one hand off the wheel and touched his jaw somewhat gingerly. "It was a little over-the-top, don't you think?"

"I thought it looked very realistic."

"Probably because it was realistic. Trust me, I felt it."

"I didn't mean to hit you that hard. I'm sorry. I got a little carried away."

"Forget it. What about the fake tears and the female hysteria?"

"I thought that all looked good," she said, not without some satisfaction. "Convincing."

"It was. I'm sure that everyone, including Fairstead, Revere, and half the top-tier amber collectors in the city, not to mention your compet.i.tors in the consulting world, bought it."

She struggled and failed to suppress a wry smile. "Everyone but you?"

"I know you better than they do. In a crisis you don't get hysterical. You file a lawsuit."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do." And maybe there were a few things about herself that she had been unaware of, too, until now. So much for having worked through all her anger with Harmonic Meditation. "In any case, I doubt that there's time for a lawsuit in this situation. Probably wouldn't do me any more good than it did the last time."

"Talk to me."

"There's an amethyst relic in Fairstead's vault," she said quietly. "I think it came from the ruin."

"Son of a ghost." He glanced at her. "You found the artifact that disappeared from the AI lab?"

"Maybe."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean? Aren't you sure?"

"I said I sensed an amethyst relic. The only question is, whose artifact is it?"

"There's no question about owners.h.i.+p," he said flatly. "It belongs to Amber Inc."

"We don't know for certain, yet, that the one in Fairstead's vault came from your lab." She cleared her throat. "There is another possibility."

He exhaled slowly. "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"Probably because you know me so well."

"About this other possibility," Cruz said. "Just how many of the relics did you remove from that chamber before Amber Inc. took control?"

"Three. Figured you'd never miss them. And you didn't. Fortunately, the aliens didn't leave a detailed inventory of the artifacts they stored in the chamber."

"Please don't tell me you hid those three stones somewhere in your apartment."

"Do I look that dumb? I stashed them down in the tunnels, of course. As soon as we get back to my place, I'll change and go underground to see if any of them are missing. If all three are still there, I think it's safe to say that the relic in Fairstead's vault is the one from the Amber Inc. lab."

"You do realize I'm not going to let you go down to your secret hiding place alone, don't you?"

"If you go with me, it will no longer be a secret."

"No," Cruz said. "It won't be a secret. Looks like you're going to have to trust me."

Chapter 20.

CRUZ CONTEMPLATED THE NARROW, JAGGED, HOLE-IN-THE-WALL entrance to the glowing catacombs. He did not know whether to be furious or impressed. But then, that was a typical state of affairs when it came to his relations.h.i.+p with Lyra.

They were standing in the sub-subbas.e.m.e.nt of an old, abandoned warehouse. The dank, concrete room smelled of mold and damp. The pitch-dark s.p.a.ce was illuminated only by their flashlights and the sliver of green psi that filtered through the slim opening into the tunnels. Water trickled ominously somewhere in the darkness.

He looked at Lyra. She was back in her prospecting attire: trousers, boots, and a denim s.h.i.+rt. Vincent was perched on her shoulder, excited, as usual, about the possibility of an adventure.

"This is how you've been coming and going from the tunnels since I last saw you?" Cruz asked.

In theory, the only officially approved ways in and out of the underground world were via the main gates guarded by the Guilds. Those entrances were usually located within the great walls that surrounded the Dead Cities. But there were countless hidden hole-in-the-wall entrances to the catacombs throughout the Old Quarters of all the cities.

The holes were not man-made. The green quartz was incredibly strong. No human-engineered tools yet invented could make a dent in the stone. But at some point in the distant past, cracks and fissures had been created in the catacombs. One theory held that they were the result of earthquakes. Some experts were convinced that the aliens themselves had made them using the same technology they had employed to construct the tunnels.

Over the years the unofficial entrances had been discovered and used by a motley array of independent prospectors and treasure hunters-the so-called ruin rats-who made their livings on the fringes of the trade in alien artifacts. Such cracks in the walls were also the entrances of choice for drug dealers, criminals fleeing from the law, thrill-seeking kids, gangs, and the occasional serial killer.

Lyra's secret hole-in-the-wall was located below the streets of one of the seediest neighborhoods of the Quarter. Just the sort of place where a serial killer might bring his victims, Cruz thought.

"I had to find a new entrance after I made the mistake of showing you the last one," she explained, de-rezzing her own flashlight. "I figured you'd have it watched."

That hurt. He'd promised, after all.

"No," he said, determined to rise above the jab. "I didn't have your old entrance watched. I never told anyone else about it. I gave you my word that I wouldn't."

"Well, that's great, but given events at the time, I couldn't be sure you'd keep your word, now, could I?"

"You really don't trust me, do you?"

"Like I said, I trust you to do what you feel you must do, but that doesn't mean that I can trust you to do what I want you to do. Nancy offered to let me use the entrance below her gallery, but I thought you might have someone watching that one, too."

He reeled in his temper with an effort of raw willpower. Time to get a grip. There were priorities here. He had to stay focused. He de-rezzed the flashlight and started toward the gash in the quartz.

"Let's go," he said.

She must have picked up on his slightly savage frame of mind, because she gave him a startled, uneasy look. But she and Vincent followed him into the glowing green world.

They all paused just inside to run through the usual amber-rez locator checks and to verify that all the amber they were carrying was working properly. The safety precautions were overkill, but only idiots skipped them. Amber was the only way to navigate underground. If you got lost in the tunnels, you ended up wandering until you died from hunger or thirst or until you blundered into an energy ghost or an illusion trap.

"First left at the intersection," Lyra said briskly.

The intersection in question was a disorienting rotunda that connected thirteen pa.s.sageways. Each branching corridor seemed to vanish into infinity. Cruz knew that part of that impression was due to the optical illusions created by the maze and the fact that everything underground was relentlessly green. In addition, while the heavy currents of energy that flowed through the tunnels gave you a pleasant buzz, they also did weird things to the senses, altering perceptions in subtle ways.

Lyra knew where she was going, of course. He might have issues with her lack of trust and independent ways, but she was a pro underground. She had been working the tunnels since her teens, and more recently she had made several successful forays into the rain forest. Like him, she had an affinity not only for amber but for the alien underworld.

"Did your security people learn anything from those two men who attacked us?" she asked in a clear attempt to change the subject.

They had been forced to change subjects a lot lately, he thought.

"Nothing helpful," he said. "They are just a couple of local street goons who got hired for their muscle, not their brains. They met their employer only once, in an alley behind a bar in the Quarter. Claimed they didn't get a good look at his face."

"Which is probably true," Lyra said. "If I set out to hire a couple of thugs, I'd make sure they didn't see my face, either."

"You've got a point. But there was one unusual aspect to their story. I had intended to talk to you about it after you finished with Wilson Revere."

"I think it's safe to a.s.sume that particular consulting relations.h.i.+p has been permanently terminated," she said glumly. "Too bad. I coulda been a contender."

"A contender for what?"

"I have no idea. My grandfather used to say that a lot. He claimed it was a line from some Old World film. Never mind. Tell me about the thugs."

"I told you, they met the guy in an alley at night. They could have said it was too dark to get a good look at him. But when they were pinned down, what they actually told the interrogators was that there was something strange about him."

She frowned. "Physically, you mean?"

"They thought he was wearing some kind of mask, one that blurred and distorted his features."

"I've seen rez-screen films where the villain wears one leg of a pair of hose over his face. It changes his face in a really creepy way."

"They were asked about that possibility. They said it was more as if his face and his body were misshapen. And everything kept changing."

"What?"

"They said that sometimes it looked like the guy's head and body appeared elongated. At other times he looked too wide and twisted."

"Those two actually used a big word like elongated?"

"No, but you get my meaning. What they described was a man who managed to conceal his features by distorting them."

She thought about that. "Do you think he was projecting some kind of rez-film image of himself against the alley wall? One that looked real enough to fool the two thugs?"

"I considered that possibility. Both men had come out of a tavern to meet the guy. No question but that they'd been drinking. They were probably high on some street drug, as well. But the more they were questioned, the more their description of the meeting with the client sounded like an experience out of a dream." He paused deliberately. "What you might call a waking nightmare."

Lyra slammed to a halt and whirled to face him with such speed that Vincent almost fell off her shoulder.

"Are you saying that the man who hired those two thugs may be causing my hallucinations?" she demanded. A mix of hope, shock, and comprehension lit her intelligent face.

He stopped, too. "I think it's a possibility, yes."

"But how? Why?"