He studied the scene below. “Interesting.”
She glanced sharply at him. “What?”
“A wooden floor.”
“What about it?”
“Looks new.”
“Maybe one of the previous owners finished off the basement,” she suggested.
“I did a quick search of the property records after you left the office today. No one has lived in this house for over forty years. That floor was put in recently.”
“Okay, I’m not arguing the point.” She tried to ignore the fact that she was shivering. “The good news is that I don’t see any bodies down there.”
“Wait here. I’m going to take a closer look.”
“No, I’ll come with you.”
He looked at her. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
It wouldn’t be the first time she had followed the currents of fog to a bad end.
“When I get this far, I need to find the answer,” she said.
He surprised her with one of his rare smiles. “Same here.”
“Two of a kind,” she said, keeping her voice light.
He seemed briefly startled by the comment, as if it had never occurred to him that he might have something in common with another human being. But he did not say anything.
She followed him down the steps. When they reached the bottom, they stood knee-deep in the sea of fog. The paranormal cold was so bone-chilling now that even Fallon sensed it.
“You’re right,” he said. “Lots of bad energy down here.”
She studied the glacial whirlpool in the center of the room. “I think most of the really terrible stuff is coming from under the floorboards.”
He raked the windowless room with the beam of his flashlight. “What about the armoire in the corner?”
She studied the old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. The doors were closed but a lot of fog shivered around it.
“Definitely something in there,” she said. “But it’s different from the stuff that’s coming up from under the floor.”
He started to prowl the room with the flashlight. “No dust down here. Someone keeps this room clean.”
She sniffed the air. “I can smell some kind of strong detergent or disinfectant. Damn, I knew it. This is going to be one of those body-in-the-basement scenarios.”
“Starting to feel that way.” He looked at her. “Not your first, I take it?”
“No. Unfortunately, with my kind of talent I get this kind of thing occasionally. Goes with the territory. When do we call the local cops?”
“As soon as we know for sure that we’ve got something to show them,” Fallon said. “Without hard evidence, we’d just be asking for trouble.”
“I guess J&J can’t just pick up the phone and tell the local authorities that one of the firm’s agents has had a psychic vision telling her that there’s a body in the old Zander house.”
“Regular law enforcement tends to take a dim view of people who claim to have paranormal powers. Can’t blame the cops. Lot of fake mediums and phony psychics out there. They’ve given our end of the investigation profession a bad name.”
“I know.”
“I’ll check the armoire first.” He started toward the wardrobe.
“Fallon,” she said. “Wait.”
He stopped and looked back at her.
“Do you hear a clock?” she asked.
He went silent. They both listened to the steady, stately ticking of an old-fashioned antique clock.
“It’s coming from inside the armoire,” Fallon said. “I didn’t hear it a few seconds ago. It just started up.”
“Sounds like the clock on your desk in the office,” she said. “The old one that you said was a Victorian-era antique.”
“Yes,” he said. “It does.”
He opened the door of the armoire and aimed the flashlight inside. Isabella held her breath, half expecting a body to fall out.
But the only object in view was a large, ornate mantel clock. It sat on a shelf. The beam of the flashlight glinted on the brass pendulum and gilt trim.
Isabella stilled. “Please don’t tell me that we’re going to have to decide whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire.”
“No.” Fallon examined the clock and the interior of the wardrobe with the flashlight. “No wires. It’s not attached to anything. It’s just a clock. Looks Victorian, like mine.”
“Old-fashioned clocks like that have to be wound every week or so. The fact that it’s ticking indicates that someone comes down here on a regular basis.”
“But we didn’t hear it when we first entered the basement,” Fallon said. He aimed the flashlight at the back of the clock, clearly fascinated now. “I’ll be damned. It’s one of Mrs. Bridewell’s inventions. I can see the alchemical symbol she used as her signature. How in hell did the device end up here?”
“Who is Mrs. Bridewell? Never mind, you can explain later. Why did it start ticking?”
“Our presence activated it. Which makes this a red-wire-blue-wire scenario after all.” He came toward her swiftly and grabbed her arm in one of his big, powerful hands. “Out. Now.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I have no idea,” Fallon said. “But it won’t be good.”
They got as far as the bottom step before the flashlights failed, plunging the basement into midnight. The faint twilight that filled the doorway at the top of the stairs darkened rapidly.
“What’s going on?” Isabella asked softly.
“The clock.” Fallon drew her to a halt halfway up the steps and lowered his voice. “It’s doing this. Generating some kind of energy that is eating all the normal light in the house. Filling the place with night.”
The relentless ticking continued.
“I don’t get that, but I agree we definitely need to leave,” she said.
“Too late.” Fallon’s voice was very low now. He spoke directly into her ear. “We’re going back down. Hang on to the railing. If you fall on these stairs, you could break your neck.”
She seized the metal banister and probed cautiously for the edge of each concrete step with the toe of her shoe. Simultaneously she pushed her talent a little higher. The para-fog did not illuminate objects the way normal light did, but the seething psi whirlpool in the center of the space and the dark light around the armoire were clearly visible. The luminescence provided a general sense of direction.
She sensed Fallon heightening his own talent and wondered how the basement appeared to him. He seemed remarkably sure-footed on the steps. It occurred to her that with his unusual ability, he had probably created a very clear mental construct of their surroundings.
“Why are we going back down?” she breathed.
“Because we are no longer alone in the house,” he said.
The floorboards squeaked overhead. Fallon was right. The house was no longer giving off empty vibes.
“Something tells me that is not a prospective buyer,” Fallon said.
“But the darkness extends to the floor above. I saw it filling the hallway. It must be like midnight up there now. How can he navigate?”
“Probably because he is some kind of talent.”
Fallon must have turned his head toward her then, because she could suddenly perceive the dark heat in his eyes.
“You can see in this night?” she whispered.
“I come from a long line of hunter-talents. Good night vision runs in the family. Whatever happens, keep silent. I’ll handle this.”
