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The community of Lost Creek shut down early but Oliver waited until midnight before leading Leona and Roxy out into the fog. They used the fire escape stairs at the rear of the inn. Roxy rode on his shoulder. Evidently she preferred the view from the higher vantage point.

There were no streetlamps, but the glow of the drifting mist was sufficient to illuminate the narrow sidewalks of the main street.

He did not like bringing Leona along for the foray to the broadcasting studio, but he had told her the truth earlier today—leaving her alone at the inn would have made him even more uneasy. It was clear now that she was at the center of this thing.

“It’s a fine night for ghosts,” Leona said softly. “The real kind.”

He glanced at her. She was bundled up in an anorak, the messenger bag with the pyramid stone inside slung across her body. He could feel her tension but he was also acutely aware of her determination. He pictured her as a little girl, bravely defying the orphanage director to call a private investigation agency when her sister went missing. Then he remembered the wild escape through the tunnels the night of the Antiquarian Society reception. He would never forget the bloody evening gown exploding in flames. He wasn’t going to forget the sight of her in her underwear and his evening jacket, either. And he would remember last night for the rest of his life.

They had spent so little time together and yet they had been through so much. He felt more intimately acquainted with her after knowing her for two days than he had with lovers he had known far longer. Closer than he had felt to Anna, even though they had been matched by an agency.

He yanked his thoughts away from that colossal mistake. He had only himself to blame for the fiasco of the non-marriage. Yes, Anna had been certain she was comfortable with his talent, but she’d had no real understanding of what he could do with it—neither had he, although he’d had his suspicions—not until the night when they had both discovered that he was one of the monsters.

“No such thing as ghosts, remember?” he said.

“I know, but I’m getting that vibe you get when someone is watching you.”

“So am I.”

She glanced at him. “Are we going to do anything about it?”

“Not yet. Pretty sure we’re not in immediate danger.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Roxy isn’t worried.”

She looked at Roxy. “You’re right.”

The small broadcasting studio at the end of the street was dark. Channel one had gone off the air at eight, as scheduled. Oliver stopped at the door and removed the lock pick from his pocket.

“I’ve got this,” Leona said.

She touched the lock with her fingertips. He felt a whisper of her energy—it gave him a pleasant little rush—and then he heard the bolt slide open.

“You really are very handy to have around,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

For a couple of seconds he tried to decide if she sounded irritated but gave up the effort. He just could not tell.

The interior of the studio was dark, thanks to the lowered shades. He took out the small penlight he had brought with him and rezzed it. The beam played over a jumble of vintage broadcasting equipment, an elderly swivel chair, and a heavy wooden desk. There was no sign of the alcoholic station manager. Evidently Margo Gibbs was drinking somewhere else tonight.

Roxy vaulted down to the floor and began to investigate.

Leona looked around. “What are we looking for?”

“Anything that looks or feels interesting,” he said.

She turned slowly on her heel. Energy whispered.

“How about a floor safe?” she said.

“That would definitely qualify. Do you see one?”

“No, but I can sense the psi-lock.” She walked across the room and stopped near a workbench that held an outdated microphone and a control box. She tapped the toe of one sneaker on the tiled floor. “I think it’s under here.”

“Let’s take a look.”

He crossed the room and went down on one knee to examine the section of flooring that had caught Leona’s attention. It didn’t take long to find the hidden button. He rezzed it cautiously.

One large floor tile popped open, revealing a vintage safe. Leona opened it without any effort. He aimed the light into the space. Together the three of them considered the video sticks inside. After a moment he removed one and focused the beam of the flashlight on the label.

“?‘Vance Speech Number Two,’?” he read.

Leona took out the other two sticks. “?‘Vance Speech Number One’ and ‘Vance Speech Number Three.’?”

“That explains the late night rez-screen programming on channel one. No ghosts involved.” He took the video sticks from her, dropped them back into the floor safe, and got to his feet. A frisson of awareness raised the hair on the back of his neck. “I’m getting that vibe again.”

“So am I.” Leona closed the safe, stood, and picked up Roxy. “Maybe it’s that guy with the mag-rez, the one named Burt.”

“Time to find out.”

“I assume you have a plan?”

“Always.”

He explained it.

“No offense, but that seems like a very simplistic plan,” Leona said.

“I’m a simple man. I like simple plans. I told you, I’m not one of the jugglers.”

“You are not a simple man, but we can argue about that later. Let’s do this. I don’t like being watched.”

He opened the door of the studio and led the way out onto the sidewalk. They walked quickly back toward the inn. The fog was heavier now. He heard footsteps behind them. The watcher was trying to close the distance.

When they reached the narrow alley between the general store and an amber tuning shop, he stepped into the dense shadows, stopped, and waited.

Leona kept walking, Roxy tucked under one arm. The footsteps of the person following her drew closer. A dark silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley.

Oliver spoke from the darkness. “Looking for someone?”

The figure gave a violent start and swung around.

“I just want to talk to her. I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

A man, Oliver realized. Late forties. His long hair was tied back with a narrow strip of leather. The khaki trousers, well-worn boots, and scarred leather jacket marked him as ex-Guild. There was a set of headphones draped around his neck.

Oliver moved closer so that he was no longer concealed in the alley. “Why do you want to talk to my consultant?”

Before the watcher could respond, quick, light footsteps announced the return of Leona. She appeared out of the fog, still clutching Roxy, who was, Oliver noted, fully fluffed and unconcerned. The dust bunny did not detect an immediate threat.

“Who are you?” Leona asked.

She spoke in a calm, polite voice, as if she were accustomed to strangers following her in a fog-bound night. Some of the watcher’s tension dissipated.

“Starkey,” he said. He cast a wary glance at Oliver and then turned back to Leona, very earnest now. “Dwight Starkey. I wasn’t going to hurt you, Ms. Griffin, but I need to know if what folks are saying is true. Are you the bride?”

“No,” Leona said. “There is no bride, just a dumb legend.”

“They’re saying you brought the key. That you’re here to open the enhancement machine and awaken Vance.”

“Do you really believe Vance is going to make a comeback tour?” Oliver asked.

“Didn’t used to.” Starkey grunted. “Figured it was just a local legend for the tourists. But after Vance started talking to people here in town, making promises…Well, I started to wonder.”

“Vance talks to people?” Oliver asked.

His voice must have had an edge, because Starkey flinched.

“He contacts his followers telepathically from the enhancement machine,” Starkey said. “At least, that’s what everyone around here thinks is going on. Personally, I don’t buy that story.”

“Are you one of his followers?” Leona asked gently.

“Shit, no.” Starkey took a deep breath and seemed to stand a little straighter. “I’m fourth-generation Guild. My great-grandfather fought Vance’s rebels at the Last Battle of Cadence. My granddad and my dad were members of the Cadence Guild. I joined when I was eighteen. I’d still be working in the Underworld if I hadn’t gotten burned real bad by an artifact. Moved here a couple of years ago. I’m an artist now.”

Leona brightened. “Are you, by any chance, the artist who signs his work Stark? The one who did that amber and metal specter-cat on display in the lobby at the inn?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Starkey said.

“I love the piece,” Leona said. “I’m going to buy it before I leave.”

“Thanks,” Starkey said. “Good amber in that cat. Tuned.”

“I know nav amber when I see it,” Leona said. “My work takes me into the Underworld, too.”

Oliver cut in before the conversation could meander any further. “You’re the one who was watching our windows in the fog last night, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just trying to figure out what in green hell is going on. I’ve got this feeling that the whole damn town is in danger. Most folks around here seem to be in some kind of trance.”

“What do you think is going on around here, Starkey?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the honest truth.” Starkey shook his head. “All I can tell you is that folks have been talking about the arrival of the bride for a couple of weeks now. They’re sure Ms. Griffin here is her and that she’s got the key.”

“Do you think they will try to steal it from her?” Oliver asked.

“Doubt it,” Starkey said. “At least not until she opens the enhancement machine. See, that’s the thing. According to the Voice, she’s the only one who can find the damned machine and unlock it. No one else can free Vance. Shit, I can’t believe I’m even saying that. I never believed any of it. Told myself it was just a scam.”

“Who is running the con?” Oliver asked.

“Best guess is the acolyte.”

“Who is the acolyte?” Leona asked.

“I don’t know that, either.” Starkey grunted. “When those pendants showed up on everyone’s doorstep a while back, the Voice said they had been distributed by the acolyte. We were told to await the arrival of the bride.”

“So you’ve heard this Voice?” Oliver asked.

“Sure. Comes from the pendants.” Starkey pulled his out from under his jacket. “Gets in your head. When I realized what was going on I started listening to rez-rock on the headphones. That way I can still hear the Voice but it feels like it’s coming from outside, not in my head.”

Oliver glanced at Leona. “The pendants are communication devices of some kind.”

“Apparently,” she said.

Starkey frowned. “Not regular coms, I can tell you that much. They don’t work both ways. You can’t talk to the acolyte or anyone else with them. You just receive the messages. The Voice is hard to describe. It’s like you hear it but not with your ears.”

“Do you think Lost Creek really was Vance’s headquarters during the Era of Discord?” Leona asked.

“Yes,” Starkey said. “Wasn’t sure when I moved here, but I do now. Until you showed up, though, I never believed he was coming back to lead another uprising.”

“Don’t worry,” Leona said. “He’s not coming back.”

“I hope not,” Starkey said.

“You’re a Guild man,” Oliver said. “You know the Underworld. So did Vance. His entire strategy was based on using the tunnels for his attacks. If he did initiate the rebellion from here, he must have had access to the caverns. Any idea where that entrance was?”

“The Waterfall Cavern. Supposedly his enhancement machine is somewhere in the tunnels under Lost Creek, but no one has ever found it.”

Oliver took the small locator off his belt. “We need the coordinates of the Waterfall Cavern.”

“No problem. It’s not that far. A thirty-minute hike.” Starkey took out his own locator and sent the coordinates. When he was finished, he dropped it into a pocket and looked at Leona. “You’re sure you’re not the bride?”

“Positive,” Leona said.

He nodded, evidently satisfied. “You two should probably get out of town first thing in the morning.”

“I agree,” Oliver said. Leona shot him a startled look. He ignored her. “This sounds like a job for the Guild and the FBPI. But there’s the little matter of the bridge. It seems to have disappeared.”

Starkey snorted. “That old trick. Should have known Burt and his pals would pull it. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“On your own?” Oliver asked.

“I’m not the only one in town who doesn’t think it would be a good idea for Vance to return.”