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The certainty that Oliver was in terrible danger came out of nowhere, icing her senses between one step and the next. For an eternity that must have lasted only a couple of seconds, she could not move. Could not breathe.

Roxy growled. Leona looked down and saw that the dust bunny was sleeked out. All four eyes and some teeth were showing. Nimbly, she vaulted to the floor and raced to the door, fascinator ribbons flying.

Leona tore herself out of the panicky paralysis and lurched toward the door. Oliver was in trouble. She had never been more sure of anything in her life.

She yanked open the door and flew out into the hall, Roxy at her feet. Together they raced to the door of room 204.

It was locked.

She steeled her nerves, concentrated, and caught the vibe of the lock. It was simple enough—it was just an old amber-rez room key in an old inn. No problem. She tweaked the vibe of her own key, essentially turning it into a passkey, and opened the door.

A storm of disorienting energy struck her senses. Vision, hearing, touch, balance—they all began to shut down in response to the sensory overload. Somewhere in the distance she heard Roxy rumble in a way that made it clear she was also affected by the silent, screaming gale. She scrambled up to Leona’s shoulder and hunkered down. Two auras were stronger than one.

A single, coherent thought surfaced above the chaos. Leona grabbed on to it and held tight. This was Alien energy and it was coming from somewhere nearby. She focused through the yellow crystal pendant around her neck, seeking the source of the psi storm.

She found it almost immediately. At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary or alarming about the small crystal bowl on the bed. But she had handled objects like it while being held hostage by the pirates. It was from the newly discovered Glass House sector, and everything in those Underworld ruins was potentially dangerous.

She concentrated, found a path through the whirlwind, and worked her way to the source of the currents. When she was as certain as she could be that she had found what she was looking for, she sent back a neutralizing pulse with the goal of flatlining the energy of the bowl.

And then she held her breath because she was dealing with Alien energy, and the one truism about working with artifacts was that they were unpredictable. No one knew for sure what the ancients had intended when they tuned their objects. The crystal bowl on the bed could have been a medical device or a lethal weapon.

Roxy’s paws tightened on her shoulder.

The bowl shut down just like any other engine that had been de-rezzed. Leona allowed herself to breathe again.

Oliver was on the floor at the foot of the bed. Motionless. His glasses had fallen beside him. His hands were clenched and his eyes were shut tight. His muscles were locked as though he were in mortal combat with unseen forces.

She rushed forward and crouched beside him. Roxy, apparently satisfied that the situation was under some semblance of control, hopped down to the floor and fluffed out. But all four eyes were still open.

“Oliver.” Leona put a hand on his shoulder. It was like touching a tightly coiled spring.

His eyes opened halfway. He stared at her as if trying to bring her into focus. “Run. Find Starkey. He’ll help you.”

“I’m not running anywhere,” she said. “Not without you.”

“Go. Now.”

She wanted to ask questions, a lot of them, starting with What the hell just happened to you? But this was not the time. The good news was that his pulse was strong and there was no sign of blood or physical injury that she could see. She had shut down the psychic weapon but damage had been done. Oliver was still battling invisible demons. He needed backup.

She tightened her grip on his shoulder and cautiously rezzed her talent. There were serious risks in deliberately attempting to interfere with another person’s aura, especially if the target’s energy field was as powerful as Oliver’s. That went double when the target was in psychic combat mode. Talk about unpredictable, she thought.

Roxy muttered and pressed against her leg, offering the support of her sturdy little aura.

“Thanks,” Leona whispered.

She opened her senses…

…and nearly drowned in a tsunami of chaos.

Her throat closed. Her chest tightened. The shadowed room began to dissolve into a foggy dreamscape. It was a wonder that Oliver was not in a coma or dead. On some deep level he was sane, and he was in a mortal battle to stay that way.

She tightened her grip on his shoulder and plunged into the maelstrom of fierce, sparking energy, seeking the strong, steady vibe at the heart of the storm. It had to be there—otherwise Oliver would have been lost by now.

She eased into the chaos in much the same way that she and Oliver had made their way through the towers of unstable artifacts and junk at Thacker’s mansion, searching for the yellow brick road that marked the path to the center…

…and there it was. The currents that anchored his sanity were still strong but they could not hold out for much longer. She focused, trying to offer additional strength. It was the first time she had ever attempted such a tactic, but it was not unlike de-rezzing a complicated psi-lock.

Oliver seized on the lifeline she had tossed to him with such shocking strength that she almost fell into the chaos herself. Without warning, he took control. His energy field snapped back to full force, threatening to overwhelm her.

“Shit,” she whispered.

She had never experienced anything like the sensation. The term psychic vampire came to mind. It was not a reassuring image. She reminded herself that Oliver was in the process of recovering from a near-coma and, quite possibly, a near-death experience. He was not trying to take control of her senses. He was a man coming back to the surface and gasping for air.

In the brief moment of panic, she fought the urge to fight back. If she did resist, she might accidentally flatline him the way she had the dangerous little bowl a moment ago.

Frantically she retreated, going full-dark with her talent in an attempt to sever the connection. The technique worked. She was suddenly free.

Oliver’s hands unclenched. He opened his eyes, no longer a man trapped in hell. “Thought I told you to run.”

“I’ll get right on that.” She stumbled to her feet and reached down to help him off the floor. “But you’re coming with me. We both need to get away from this inn tonight.”

He ignored the hand she offered, which was probably for the best because he was a lot bigger than she was and might have pulled her down to the floor. He got to his feet unsteadily but under his own power and looked around as if reorienting himself. For a second or two she worried that he would lose his balance, but he stayed upright.

“Flamers,” he said. “We’re not leaving without them.”

“I’ve got mine.” She patted the messenger bag still slung across her body. “Yours is in your messenger bag, remember?”

He shook his head, as if to clear it, and then appeared to realize he had his bag, too. “Right.” He spotted his glasses on the floor and grabbed them. “Let’s go.”

“Right.”

She went to the open door and started down the hall, heading for the emergency stairs at the back of the inn. She stopped when she realized Oliver was not following. She looked back and saw that he was rubbing his forehead with one hand.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“Yeah. Fine.” He lowered his hand. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“No wonder. What about your senses?”

“Burned. I need some sleep.”

He was beyond tired, she realized. More like exhausted. She had to get him to a safe place so that he could recover.

“Give me your locator,” she ordered.

He blinked. “Why?”

“I don’t think we’re safe anywhere here in town. Our best bet is to disappear into the Underworld for a while. Starkey gave you the coordinates to the cave. He said there was a way down into the tunnels from there.”

“I should have thought of that,” he muttered.

He sounded thoroughly annoyed with himself. She understood.

“You’re not operating at full-rez,” she said. “You need time. Give me the locator.”

He took the device off his belt and handed it to her. In spite of his exhaustion, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Did I ever tell you I’ve got a thing for strong, take-charge women?”

“Don’t worry. In my experience, men with that particular issue always change their minds after a few dates with me.”

“And then what?”

“They panic and run.”