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THE UNNERVING WHISPER OF ENERGY FEATHERED THE FINE hair on the nape of Sierra's neck the moment she parked her battered little Float at the curb. The fog had lightened somewhat in the afternoon, but the Quarter was still wrapped in a ragged gray blanket. She could see only as far as the intersection.

She got out cautiously, Elvis perched on her shoulder. He muttered a little.

'You sense it, too, don't you?' she asked softly.

Elvis seemed alert but not unduly alarmed. His calm response reassured her. If there had been an imminent threat, he would no longer look like something that had come out of the inside of a vacuum cleaner. He would be sleeked out in full battle-ready mode, his second set of eyes, the ones he used for hunting, wide open.

She stood on the curb for a moment, surveying the narrow street. There was the usual ambient alien psi that permeated the Quarter, but it was a pleasant, lightly stimulating sensation. That wasn't what was ruffling her intuitive senses. What she was experiencing was the same sensation that had made it impossible to sleep last night; the creepy feeling that she was being observed from the shadows.

She looked around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. By day Jade Street was always imbued with a slightly seedy, down-at-the-heels atmosphere. The impression was magnified this afternoon because of the ominous gloom of the relentless fog. Nevertheless, this was not a dangerous section of the Quarter.

The two-hundred-year-old Colonial-era buildings that loomed on either side housed a mix of what the newspaper ads like to call «affordable» apartments, such as the one she lived in, a number of low-end antiquities shops that specialized in alien and First Generation relics, a convenience store, and a tavern called the Green Gate.

Unlike some of the other streets in the Quarter, there was no obvious drug dealing going on in the doorways, and no hookers lounged or strolled beneath the old-fashioned streetlights. The women of the night preferred the sleazier neighborhoods on the east and west side of the towering green wall that enclosed the ruins.

'Okay, pal,' she said to Elvis. 'Here we go.'

Elvis chortled happily and leaned forward when she stepped off the curb and hurried toward the entrance of her apartment building. He liked to go fast. Actually, he got excited about anything that promised a bit of an adrenaline rush. Probably all the caffeine, Sierra thought. Then again, maybe it was the predator in him. Underneath all that adorable gray fuzz beat the heart of a natural-born hunter. Dust bunnies, she had discovered, were omnivorous, but they were definitely riot vegetarians.

She rezzed the security lock, opened the door, and moved into the small, dark hallway. The manager, Sacker, or the Slacker, as he was known to the tenants, still had not replaced the overhead light. The only illumination came from the dim wall sconces on the landings above. She paused again, waiting to see if the sensation of being watched faded now that she was indoors. It didn't.

'You think maybe I'm going over the edge and getting downright paranoid?' she said aloud to Elvis. 'I'd hate to think that when I look at the Runt, I'm seeing my future.'

Elvis mumbled something. He was either offering reassurance or asking for a treat. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

She went quickly up the shadowed stairs to the third-floor landing and rezzed the lock of her own door. The tiny one-bedroom apartment was tranquil and welcoming. Once inside, Elvis bounded down from her shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen. By the time she arrived, he was on the counter in front of his treat jar.

She raised the lid and waited. Elvis liked to make his own choice. He fluttered up to sit on the rim of the jar. Maintaining his grip with his hind legs, he leaned down and selected a chocolate cookie from the little heap inside.

'That's it for now, King.' She replaced the cookie jar lid. 'I've got to go change. I wonder what a girl's supposed to wear to a tacky MC wedding. That wasn't covered at Miss Pendergast's Academy for Young Ladies. Guess I flunked out before we got to that subject.'

Her short term at what her mother had called a 'silly finishing school' had been her own idea. It had seemed like a good one at the time. Several girls in her class had spent a year getting «polished» at Miss Pendergast's. As the notoriously unsuccessful, unfocused underachiever in a family of successful, focused overachievers, she had been lured by the promise of instant sophistication. In her seventeen-year-old fantasies she had seen herself emerging from the academy with elegant social skills and a worldly attitude that would instantly catapult her into a successful, achieving life.

But boredom had set in after the first week. She had quickly discovered that devising themes for elegant parties and paying exquisite attention to the details of interior design and table settings had an extremely limited appeal. She had been 'counseled out,' as the saying went, at the end of the first quarter. She suspected that the only reason she hadn't been asked to leave sooner was because of her family name. The director had been very reluctant to offend a McIntyre.

The entire episode had become just another family joke, one of many founded on her inability to find her passion, as her grandmother Larken liked to say. Grandmother Larken, from whom Sierra had inherited her intuitive talents, was the only one who had ever really understood her. When things went wrong, as they inevitably did, Sierra knew she could turn to the older woman for comfort and advice. But there was no point calling her this afternoon. Like everyone else in the family, Grandmother Larken disapproved of MCs.

Sierra made her way into the bedroom, stripping off her jacket and skirt as she went. She opened the door of her closet and surveyed the contents.

Her wardrobe was a mix of a few of the high-end clothes she had brought with her from Resonance and the more moderate apparel that she had bought for her new life here in Crystal. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her colleagues at the Curtain to think that she was a wealthy socialite who was merely amusing herself with a short-term career as a reporter. No one at the Curtain knew that she was connected to the McIntyres of McIntyre Industries, and she intended to keep things that way.

For some reason the decision of what to wear to the registrar's office was a lot more difficult than it ought to have been, given the circumstances. When Elvis drifted in, cookie in paw, and took up a position on the win- dowsill, she turned to him for advice.

'This is a business arrangement,' she explained. 'Does that mean another suit? Then again, it's supposed to look like a real wedding. Maybe I should wear something a little more formal. Lord knows there will be photos. Fontana and I are going to be plastered across the cover of the Curtain tomorrow. Hope he realizes what he's in for now that he's decided to go over to the dark side of journalism.'

Elvis munched his cookie. She thought he looked like he was trying to be supportive and helpful, but she couldn't be sure.

A glance at the clock told her that time was getting short. She had to make an executive decision, and she had to make it right now. She yanked the simple, long-sleeved, black, all-occasion dress off the hanger and pulled it on over her head. Everything about it was discreet, understated, and elegant; not too dressy for late afternoon but with enough flair to go smoothly into the evening. She knew that because her cousin Tamsyn had helped her select it. Tamsyn had unerring taste in clothes.

'Tamsyn says you can never go wrong with a little black dress,' she explained to Elvis.

She found the pair of black pumps on the floor of the closet, slipped some gold hoops into her ears, and rushed into the bathroom to apply lipstick and a little fresh powder. When she looked into the mirror, only one word came to mind.

'Aargh,' she said to Elvis, who had drifted in to watch. 'My hair.'

In desperation she seized one of her array of headbands and slapped it on her head. It was the only way to tame the raging sea of curls.

Hurrying out into the hall, she shrugged into a light overcoat, grabbed her purse, and raced for the door with Elvis back on her shoulder. Picking up on her sense of urgency, he muttered enthusiastically.

She went back down the stairs and out onto the street. The fog had thickened. That was going to slow traffic even further. There was a good chance now that she might actually be late to the wedding. Somehow she did not think that Fontana would appreciate that. Guild bosses were probably accustomed to punctuality from others.

She stepped out into the empty street. Halfway across, cold dread and icy panic swept through her senses,