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With a furious effort of will, she yanked herself out of the shock-and-horror-induced trance and edged into the pantry, trying to avoid the blood trail. She crouched beside the body and felt for a pulse, not expecting to find one.

She felt nothing but cooling skin and the utter stillness of death. Given her own pounding pulse and shaking fingers, however, she could not be sure. She fumbled with the buttons of the blood-soaked jacket, got them undone, and raised one edge to search for the wound.

She was startled by the sight of the metal disc that hung from a chain around the woman’s neck. The disc was emblazoned with a notorious emblem familiar from history books and old videos. A transparent crystal was embedded in the pendant. The words Vincent Lee Vance Will Return were inscribed around the outer edge.

The waiter had evidently been a member of a Vance return cult.

Focus, she thought. There were two terrible slashes in the bloody white shirt. The bleeding had stopped. The energy laid down by violent death was already soaking into the floor beneath the body. It would remain there indefinitely, evident to those who possessed the psychic sensitivity to detect it. There was no scrubbing away that kind of evidence.

She let the jacket fall back over the pendant and the wounds and got to her feet. So much for slipping away from the reception unnoticed. She had to alert the security staff.

She took a step toward the door and froze. Muffled yells and shouted commands erupted from the direction of the ballroom, reverberating down the hallway. She could hear sirens now as well as the thuds of stampeding feet.

Out in the ballroom someone bellowed through a bullhorn.

“FBPI. Nobody move.”

Energy shifted in the hall outside the pantry. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway. She remembered the old saying about criminals returning to the scenes of their crimes. Panic electrified her senses.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“What the hell?” Oliver looked at the body. “Is she dead?”

The shot of panic receded. Her intuition told her that Oliver had not murdered the woman. For one thing, there was no blood on his clothes. Whoever had butchered the waiter would almost certainly have been splattered with some of the evidence. There was another factor that reassured her as well. If Oliver had killed the waiter, he would have done it in a much neater, more efficient way.

“Yes. I was going to slip out through the emergency exit. But I found her. I have to tell security. Or the police. Someone. What is happening out there?”

“A raid. The planning has been in the works for months. Let’s go. We need to get out of here.”

“We can’t leave her here. We have to tell someone.”

“Trust me, the agents will find her very soon, and if they also find you standing over the body, your hands covered in blood, guess who’s going to get arrested?”

“But I didn’t kill her.”

“I believe you, but the situation out in the ballroom is complicated.”

The pandemonium was escalating. A small muffled explosion reverberated from some distant quarter of the mansion. A series of shots quickly followed.

No question about it, the situation had descended into chaos.

“Follow me,” Oliver said.

He turned to go down another hallway. That was when she saw the pack slung over his left shoulder. She wondered which artifact he had helped himself to on his private tour of the gallery.

She glanced at the alarmed door. “We can use the emergency exit.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Too risky. There are agents and cops stationed outside the house, watching for anyone who comes through the emergency doors. There’s another way out.”

She hoisted her skirts, realizing belatedly that the lower portion of her gown was soaked with blood and her hands were smeared with the stuff. A wave of lightheadedness came over her. If I had left the ballroom a few minutes earlier, I might have been able to save the waiter…

For a beat she was afraid she might faint. She never fainted.

And then a firm hand closed around her arm, steadying her.

“Breathe,” Oliver said.

“If I had come down that hallway a few minutes earlier, I might have been able to save her…”

“I said breathe .” This time it was an order.

Instinctively, she obeyed. Her head cleared, but now she felt nauseous. So much blood . She looked at the sign on a nearby door. Restroom .

“I’ll be right back,” she managed to whisper.

“We don’t have time.”

“I understand. Go without me. I can take care of myself.”

She pushed open the swinging door and dashed to the first in a long row of sinks. She rinsed her hands as quickly as she could, yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser, and rushed back out into the hallway. She was shocked to see that Oliver was still there.

“You waited,” she said in disbelief.

“Not like I had anything better to do.” He turned away and started down the hall. “Let’s move.”

She hurried after him. When she got closer, she picked up a faint, familiar trickle of energy. She looked at the pack on his shoulder in disbelief.

“You stole Pandora’s box?” she asked.

“I didn’t steal it. I recovered it. The artifact is why I’m here tonight.”

She decided this was not a good time to debate the semantics of the words theft and recovery .

He turned another corner and led her down a narrow, cramped corridor. Halfway along the hall he stopped in front of what looked like a blank wall. He rezzed a concealed button. A panel slid aside.

Leona looked past his shoulder and saw a well of darkness. Underworld energy wafted up a cracked concrete staircase. With it came the dank smell of a deep basement.

Oliver rezzed his phone flashlight. “There’s a hole-in-the-wall entrance to the tunnels down there.”

“Why aren’t the members of the Society using it to escape the raid?”

“Because they don’t know about it. They are trying to escape through another hole-in-the-wall but the task force team is guarding it. Let’s go. Close the panel behind you.”

He went easily down the steps, apparently assuming she would follow. She hesitated, but when another round of shots rumbled in the distance, she followed him, sliding the panel shut.

They reached the bottom of the steps and, guided by the flashlight, crossed the darkened basement. Oliver stopped in front of a mag-steel vault door.

“Don’t worry, I can open it,” she said.

“So can I.”

He took a small gadget out of the inside pocket of his jacket and rezzed it. There was a muted hum from the interior of the door and then a sharp click.

She wondered if she had offended him by her offer of assistance. Probably. She had a list of exes who had indicated that she had an annoying habit of telling them what to do and how to do it. During the course of the recent—unfortunately, explosive—breakup with Matt Fullerton, he had made her faults quite clear.

She put the issue aside. It wasn’t as if she was trying to fire up a romantic relationship with Oliver. They were temporary partners in crime. Sort of. And she had to admit, the fancy lock pick was impressive.

“Cool gadget,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

“Company labs.”

She decided it would be best not to ask the name of the company. If he had stolen the lock pick, she would just as soon not know the details.

“Amber check,” he ordered.

“Right.”

First things first. Rational people did not go into the Underworld without making sure their navigation amber was properly tuned. To do otherwise was to take a risk that was borderline suicidal.

She rezzed a little energy and got the reassuring feedback from the amber in her jewelry that told her it was functioning properly.

“I’m good,” she said.

“So am I.”

He pulled open the vault door, revealing the glowing green quartz tunnel on the other side. The powerful currents of paranormal energy that flowed throughout the vast maze of underground corridors stirred her senses. It always did. The flash of sheer, unadulterated wonder that she experienced in the ruins never got old. There was so much to learn, so much to discover, among the antiquities the long-vanished Aliens had left behind.

Oliver moved through the opening, waited for her to follow, and then pulled the vault door closed.

The jagged opening in the tunnel wall was taller than a normal door but narrower. Oliver had to turn sideways to get his broad shoulders through it. The experts had plenty of theories about the forces that had been powerful enough to rip holes in the seemingly indestructible quartz—nothing human engineering had produced could even chip or dent the stone—but no one knew for sure what had caused the cracks and fissures. Currently the most popular notion was that nothing less than massive natural forces deep inside the planet—tectonic plates or underground volcanoes—could have created the openings. But who knew?

Inside the tunnel, Oliver switched off the flashlight. There was no need for it. The green quartz the Aliens had used to construct the sprawling network of passageways was infused with an eerie radiance that glowed day and night.

“Stay close and stay focused,” Oliver said. “Don’t get distracted.”

She tried to ignore the cold, I’m in charge here attitude, but now she was the one who was offended. She was no newbie in the Underworld.

“Distracted by what?” She waved a hand at their surroundings. “The energy down here? The scenery? Don’t worry. This is not my first trip into the tunnels. I’m a professional para-archaeologist, remember?”

“A professional para-archaeologist whose last expedition did not end well.”

That stung. It also sent a jolt of anger across her senses. She did not need the guilt trip. She had been hard enough on herself as it was in the wake of the abduction and rescue. Lately her anxiety-ridden nightmares were threatening to turn her into a full-blown insomniac.

“The Hollister Expedition disaster had nothing to do with being distracted,” she said in her iciest voice. “My colleagues and I were kidnapped. You can’t blame that on me.”

But maybe if I had been paying more attention to the actions of the security team…just as I should have been paying more attention that long-ago day at the orphanage…

“Listen up,” Oliver said. “I’m not blaming you for anything. I’m making the point that we’re not in the clear yet, so pay attention. Obviously you don’t take orders well.”

She refused to dignify that with a response.

“Think of my suggestions as well-intentioned advice,” he added.

She reminded herself that she had been told she had a tendency to give others the benefit of her advice even when it was not always appreciated.

“Can I assume you have a plan?” she asked.

“Always. And a backup.”

She vowed not to get drawn into an argument. There was no good reason to complicate their already messy relationship, at least not until she had a plan of her own.

No, not relationship . What she and Oliver had was a temporary association . Big difference.

“In that case, thank you for the advice,” she made herself say, keeping her tone exquisitely polite. “No distractions. I will keep that front of mind.”

She could have sworn the edge of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. A tell of some sort, she decided, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. It had better not indicate amusement. This was not an amusing situation. Also, she really, really did not want to be a source of amusement for Oliver Rancourt.

They started down a tunnel lined on either side with vaulted entrances to chambers of various sizes. The energy spilling out of one of the doorways hit her with the force of a thunderstorm. She knew objects of power when she got near them. She glanced inside the room and saw dozens of museum storage crates piled high around the space.

“Some of whatever is in those crates came from the Glass House sector,” she said. “I can sense the vibe. They shouldn’t be here. That entire region is controlled by the federal government. It has not been approved for open exploration because it has not been mapped and cleared. The removal of any artifacts is against the law.”

“I warned you not to get distracted.”

“When we get back to the surface, I’m going to report this.”

“Suit yourself, but if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll keep quiet.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no good reason to get involved. In fact, it would be spectacularly dumb to do so.”

“Why?” she said again.

“Do you always ask questions at inconvenient times?”

“Always. And I usually have a backup question, too.”

He winced. “Moving right along. I told you, there’s an FBPI raid going on back there. The Feds have been planning the operation for months. They scheduled the takedown for the one night of the year when the Society and its members are most vulnerable.”

“The annual reception,” she said quietly.

“There will be a lot of arrests tonight. There will also be a thorough search. The authorities will find the body of the waiter and the artifacts stashed down here. There’s no good reason for them to link you to either of those two problems. It would not look good on your résumé.”

She got a ping. Her intuition kicked in. With it came a rush of certainty. “You’re working with the FBPI, aren’t you? You were the inside contact, the one who gave them the signal to move in. Are you a confidential informant? Did they pressure you to be their spy tonight? Threaten to put you in prison if you didn’t cooperate? There’s an old saying, It takes a thief to catch a thief . What have the Feds got on you?”

“I am devastated to discover that you hold such a low opinion of me.”

“My current opinion of your character is based on available facts.” She flashed him a very shiny smile, the one she used when she was trying to persuade obsessive collectors to donate their best pieces to the university’s collection. “If you want me to change that opinion, you’ll have to supply new information.”

“It’s true I agreed to do the Bureau a favor tonight.”

“Because you had your own agenda,” she said, satisfied with the way her intuition was connecting the data points. “The raid certainly worked nicely with your personal plan, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.” He sounded pleased.

“Hah. I thought so. Do the Feds know you stole one of the artifacts?”

“I thought I made it clear that I did not steal the damned box,” he said. “I recovered it.”

The edge of amusement was gone. He was getting irritated. Served him right.

“I forgot,” she said. “You’re a repo agent.”

“The box was stolen from a private museum. I was tasked with retrieving it. My sources indicated it would be on display tonight. And yes, my goal was aligned with the Bureau’s decision to raid the Society.”

“And you knew about the happy coincidence of the timing because?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve coordinated with the FBPI.”

“I see,” she said. She glanced at the pack slung over his shoulder. “Do you know who stole the box from this—ahem—so-called private museum?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”

He was beyond both amusement and irritation now, she realized. In their place was a cold determination that sent a chill across her senses. He was serious. Resolute. Focused on the objective. A man with a mission.

Earlier she had concluded it would not be a good idea to underestimate Oliver Rancourt. She suspected whoever had stolen Pandora’s box had made that mistake and would live to regret it.

He led her across a wide rotunda and into one of a dizzying number of branching tunnels. A few steps past the entrance he stopped and motioned toward a sled.

“Your carriage awaits,” he said.

The simple amber-fueled sleds resembled golf carts. They didn’t move fast—at top speed they could barely outpace someone who was running—but they were the only means of transport in the Underworld. More sophisticated, more powerful engines did not function in the psi-heavy environment.

For some reason, she was now the one who was amused. “You know, I arrived at the reception in a limo tonight. I had intended to leave the same way.”

“Sorry I can’t offer more impressive service, but I’ll be happy to give you a lift back to the Dark Zone.”

She froze. “You know where I live?”

“I always do my research. You were the anomaly at the reception tonight. The unknown quantity. I needed to know if you might prove to be a problem.”

The anomaly .

Not exactly the provocative, mysterious, sexy image a woman in an evening gown and heels wanted to project.

“You should have asked me,” she said. “I could have told you the answer to that question is yes.”

“Believe it or not, I figured that out right off. Do you want a ride or not?”

The alternative involved finding the nearest exit from the tunnels on her own. She would probably end up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, one in which walking down the street in high heels and a bloodstained evening gown at midnight might be a very good way to get arrested.

“I suppose that if you intended to murder me to keep me from telling the authorities that you stole a rare artifact, you would have done so by now,” she said. “Yep, I accept your offer of a ride.”

“Keep this up and you’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that, considering that you’re the one with the sled.”

“See? I knew you were pretty smart.”

She whisked up her bloodstained skirts, stepped onto the platform, and sat down at one end of the front bench. Oliver slipped off the pack and set it on the rear bench. He got behind the wheel and rezzed the motor. There was a quiet confidence in every move he made.

She was suddenly conscious of just how close he was now. He was not a big man but he dominated the space around him. It was his energy field, she thought. So much chained power.

“You told me you always have a plan and a backup,” she said on impulse.

“Right.”

“Obviously I wasn’t a factor in your original plan. So, are we now going with your backup plan?”

“No. I also believe in having a very flexible plan A. My original plan included leaving on the sled, and that’s what I’m doing. The only difference is that I’m not leaving alone.”

“In other words, I’m excess baggage?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a souvenir.” An enthusiastic chortling stopped him just as he was about to step on the accelerator. “What in green hell?”

Startled, Leona turned on the seat and looked back. A large wad of dryer lint with six paws and a couple of bright blue eyes was bustling toward the sled.

“It’s the dust bunny,” she said, delighted.

“Which dust bunny?” Oliver asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“The one that got my attention in the gallery and led me to the lab to rescue her pals.”

“How can you be sure it’s the same dust bunny?” Oliver’s brows rose. “Or that it’s a female?”

“I can’t explain it.” She smiled. “I guess there’s some sort of connection between us now.” She broke off. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“She’s got something in her paws. A little crystal sculpture. Pretty sure I recognize it.”

“Does it belong to you?”

“No. I noticed it earlier in one of the glass cases in the gallery. Dust bunnies are very attracted to bright, shiny objects.”

“Those cases are securely locked. How did she get it?”

“I unlocked the case to get a better look at the artifact. I may have left it open.”

“Got it. You were planning to take a little souvenir yourself.”

She glared at him. “I was distracted by the dust bunny. It was obvious she needed help.”

Oliver’s mouth twitched again. “Distracted?”

“Oh, shut up.”

The dust bunny hopped up onto the sled platform and then bounded onto the rear bench. With a cheery chortle, she offered the object to Leona.

“Thanks.” Leona took the object and stifled a sigh. “Really? Of all the valuable objects that were in the gallery, you picked this one to give me as a thank-you gift?”

The dust bunny had lost interest. She was braced expectantly on the rear seat.

Oliver gestured for her to hop off the sled. “Time to bail. We’re leaving now.”

The dust bunny chortled and made no move to leave.

“Suit yourself,” Oliver said.

He stomped on the accelerator. The sled moved forward along the glowing tunnel, picking up speed. The dust bunny bounced up and down, chortling enthusiastically.

“Dust bunnies like to go fast,” Leona explained. “They’re little adrenaline junkies.”

“Yeah?” Oliver studied the location indicator on the dashboard and steered around a corner. “How do you know that?”

“My sister is pals with one. She calls him Newton. He gets very excited in a car or a sled.”

Oliver glanced at the crystal object in her hand. “What is that?”

She cleared her throat and dropped the artifact into her evening bag. It barely fit. “It’s an interesting little sculpture. Old World. Circa the nineteenth century, I think, although this isn’t my area of expertise.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

“I believe the technical name for this type of sculpture is personal intimacy aid .”

“Thought so. A hot dildo.”